"How long?" Casteel gasped.
"Until you learn obedience," Doran replied. "Or until the bond breaks entirely. Which would, of course, kill you both."
But surely that was the last thing Doran wanted? He was bluffing. He had to be.
The guards dragged them in opposite directions. Casteel craned his neck for one last glimpse of Nero's face, memorizing the fierce determination in those dark eyes even as pain clouded them. Then the courtyard disappeared behind stone walls, and only the throbbing ache of separation remained.
They returned Casteel to the bonding chamber, but it felt different now—less like a gilded prison, more like a tomb. The silk-draped bed where he and Nero had joined seemed to mock him with its empty luxury. Every breath sent fresh waves of pain through his chest, as if invisible hands were slowly crushing his ribs. He collapsed onto the cold marble floor, unable to make itto the bed, his body trembling as the bond stretched thin across the distance.
Time became meaningless. He couldn't mark the passage of time—Casteel couldn't tell. The pain worsened steadily, a constant throb that made thinking difficult. He found himself curled on his side, arms wrapped around his chest as if he could physically hold the pieces of himself together.
When the door opened, he barely registered the sound. Footsteps approached, measured and careful.
"By the gods," Makim spoke, his voice thick with dismay. "What have they done?"
Casteel managed to lift his head slightly. The healer knelt beside him, weathered hands immediately moving to check his pulse, his breathing, the fever that was already beginning to build, then helped him to the bed.
"How long has it been?" Makim asked gently.
"Don't...don't know," Casteel whispered. "The pain..."
Makim's face darkened with anger. "Fools. Complete fools." He helped Casteel sit up against the wall, though even that small movement sent fresh agony through his body. "The bond is too fresh for separation. Your bodies are rejecting the distance."
"Nero?" Casteel managed.
"Suffering as you are I imagine, though it's worse for the wolf." Makim pulled a small vial from his robes. "This will ease the worst of it, but it's temporary. You need to be together."
Casteel drank the bitter liquid gratefully, feeling some of the crushing weight lift from his chest. "Doran won't allow it."
"Doran is a greedy politician masquerading as a priest," Makim spat. "He cares more for control than for the sacred bonds he claims to serve." The healer sat back on his heels, studying Casteel's face. "Tell me truthfully—was the bonding willing? Both of you?"
Casteel nodded without hesitation. "Yes. We chose it." Or it was for him. He still worried Nero felt compelled. No, he knew he did.
"Then this separation is not just cruel, it's blasphemous." Makim stood, his expression resolute. "I'm going to speak with him."
"He won't listen—"
"He'll listen to me," Makim said grimly. "I've been serving these sacred bonds since before he was born. And I know things about the old magic that he's conveniently forgotten."
The healer left, and Casteel was alone again with the pain. But Makim's medicine had given him enough relief to think more clearly. Through the thin thread of their bond, he could sense Nero—distant, muffled, but alive. The connection pulsed weakly, like a dying heartbeat.
In the dungeons below, Nero paced his small cell like a caged wolf. He knew Doran had issued an empty threat. If they died, there was no silver wolf to manipulate, but Casteel felt the effects of the bond more sharply than he and he was already hurting. The stone walls seemed to press closer with each bell, and the bond's absence felt like a missing limb. He fought against the pain with all the discipline he'd honed during the rebellion, but it was unlike any injury he'd ever sustained. This wasn't just physical agony—it was emptiness, a void where something vital had been ripped away.
The guards had watched him warily at first, expecting violence. But as time passed and the separation sicknessworsened, their expressions shifted to uncomfortable concern. One even offered water, which Nero accepted with grim silence.
His body burned with fever, yet he felt cold to his core. Sweat soaked through his rough-spun shirt, and his hands trembled no matter how tightly he clenched them. He'd survived torture during the rebellion without breaking, but this...this was different. This was being ripped apart from within.
Through the fragile thread that still connected them, he could feel Casteel's suffering—a distant echo that somehow hurt worse than his own pain. The boy was enduring this because of him, because he'd failed to get them out.
When the cell door creaked open, Nero tensed, expecting Doran's smug face. Instead, Makim entered, his expression thunderous.
"Stubborn fool," the healer muttered, though whether he meant Nero or Doran wasn't clear. He set down his medicine bag and approached cautiously. "Let me see you."
Nero backed away. "Where is Casteel?"
"Suffering, but much worse." Makim's direct answer cut through Nero's defenses. "The separation is killing you both, but he's deteriorating faster."
Fear clutched at Nero's throat. "Why faster?"
