“And the rest?” he asks.
I lift a dark mantle, heavy with stitched sigils. “Hood. Shadow. Silence.”
He steps closer as I adjust the fabric against his chest, fingers brushing skin far warmer than it should be. The bond stirs, curious and pleased.
“You’re very determined,” he murmurs.
I glance up. “They don’t get to decide what parts of my life you’re allowed to witness.”
Something shifts in his expression. “You don’t need to prove anything to them,” he says.
“I’m not,” I reply. “I’m proving it to myself.”
He exhales, slow and controlled. “We don’t have to pretend to be something we’re not. This bond is for political reasons.”
“I know,” I say softly. “But this isn’t pretending. This is sharing.”
For a moment, I think he’ll refuse.
Then he inclines his head. “Very well. Lead the way.”
The festival begins before nightfall.Lanterns bloom between the trees like fallen stars. Tables are laid with spiced roots, honeyed breads, glowing cups of fermented sap. Music hums low and rhythmic, pulsing with the Wildspont’s heartbeat.
Zeidan stays close, hood drawn, magic pressed tight and quiet beneath layers of restraint. I guide him through the crowd, offering him tastes of everything.
“This,” I say, handing him a cup, “will burn.”
He sniffs it. “Everything here burns.”
He drinks, and coughs once, sharply.
I grin. “You’ll survive.”
His eyes gleam from the shadows of the hood. “Your hospitality is vicious.”
We laugh. Gods help me, we actually laugh. For a few stolen moments, the bond feels light and curious. Almost playful.
Then the drums change. The ritual begins.
I step into the circle barefoot, the earth cool and alive beneath my skin. My breath slows as I raise my hands, channeling magic downward, into root and stone and bone.
I feel him then. Just watching me from the edge of the circle, wrapped in shadow, his presence steadies me like an anchor sunk deep into my spine. The bond hums in approval, a low, resonant note.
The ground pulses. Something old stirs beneath us. The gods listen. The Wildspont answers me more readily than it has in months.
Magic pours from my palms in a steady stream, sinking into the earth, threading through root and soil and old stone. But it doesn’t feel like it usually does, thin, strained, aching. It feels… reinforced. As if something stronger has slid beneath it, bracing it from below.
His magic…A dark countercurrent braided seamlessly with mine, stabilizing, grounding. Where my power burns hot and bright, his runs deep and cold, a steady pressure that keeps it from spiraling. Together, it feels right. Balanced in a way I didn’t know was possible.
The bond swells, warm and resonant, humming through my veins like a second pulse. I draw a breath and feel him do the same, somewhere beyond the ring of lantern light. I know without looking that his attention is fixed on me.
The ground shudders. A low, ancient sound rolls beneath my feet, not a voice, but acknowledgment. The gods are still listening. The Wildspont opens, just a fraction, this time it doesn’t feel like it’s begging.
It feels hopeful. I lift my hands higher, surrendering to the rhythm, to the pull of the circle, to the quiet certainty that I am not alone in this.
Then a light flashes at the edge of my vision. Metal catches the firelight. A blade, slicing through the crowd, moving far too fast. Straight for my heart.
10
