“Let me speak to him," Sophie demanded as the guards dragged her down the hall. “He's making a mistake!"
But no one answered. The cuffs bit into her wrists.
They shoved her into a cold chamber—bare stone walls, a locked iron door. Alone.
An hour passed. Then two.
When the door opened, it wasn't Dylan.
It was the Chief Healer, eyes grim, clipboard in hand.
“We've finished the testing," he said flatly. “You're the only match."
Sophie's breath caught. “You're sure?"
He nodded once. “But your medical history shows significant scar tissue from prior abdominal trauma. The surgery carries lethal risk."
“Then I can't—"
“You can. And he intends to make you."
---
The next morning, Sophie stood before the council chamber, wrists still shackled.
Dylan sat at the head of the crescent table
