Silence crashes down. Zeidan’s hand is on my back instantly, steadying me before I fall. My stomach rolls. The air tastes like iron.
I didn’t mean to kill him. I meant to save the truth.
Zeidan’s control slams over the bond like a shield. His hand presses firmer between my shoulder blades, anchoring me before my knees can buckle.
“Breathe,” he says under his breath, too low for anyone else.
I do, because he tells me to. Because my body listens now even when my pride doesn’t. For a terrifying second, I feel his rage too. Not at me.
At whoever built a spell designed to turn a person into a disposable lockbox.
“You saw something,” he says.
I nod, shaking. “It was one of us.”
Somewhere in Nytheria, a traitor is already moving. And I don’t know if my magic, or my heart, will survive what comes next.
12
ZEIDAN
Inotice the instability before she does. It’s subtle at first. A fluctuation at the edge of my senses, a wrongness in the rhythm of the bond that doesn’t belong to pain or fear. Amelia’s magic no longer settles after exertion. It rebounds. Echoes. Lingers too long in the air, like heat trapped beneath glass.
It worries me.
She stands in the outer practice ring with the other Purnas, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair braided tight to keep it out of her face. She looks composed and focused. If I didn’t feel the bond tug and twist every time she channels, I might believe she has this under control.
The ritual circle etched into the stone beneath her feet is simple, grounding and flow, meant to teach restraint. Amelia raises her hands, palms outward, and draws magic upward from the earth.
The Wildspont answers, but its too fast and a lot of energy at once. The air hums sharply. Runes flare brighter than they should, their lines thickening, light bleeding beyond their bounds. The circle vibrates underfoot, stone cracking faintly as power surges outward in a sudden, uncontrolled wave.
“Amelia,” I snap.
She hears me, but too late. The magic spikes. Fire blossoms along the lines of the circle, not flame exactly, but raw energy burning white-hot, devouring the sigils meant to contain it. One of the younger Purnas stumbles back with a shout as heat lashes past her.
I move without thinking. My magic slams down like a net, shadow folding around Amelia’s flare, smothering it before it can ignite fully. The circle gutters and dies, scorched and smoking. Silence crashes over the ring.
Amelia stands frozen at the center, chest heaving, eyes wide.
The bond screams in panic. The sharp edge of fear she refuses to voice. I step into the ring.
“Enough,” I say, voice low but absolute.
The others hesitate. They glance between us, between her shaking hands and my presence like a blade drawn too close to the throat. They still dont trust me and I can see my presence scares them, but I dont care. I am not here for them.
“Go,” I repeat.
They scatter quickly. No one argues. When we’re alone, the tension snaps loose.
“I didn’t mean to—” Amelia starts.
“I know,” I cut in.
Her magic is still flaring, bleeding outward in erratic pulses. The ground beneath her feet glows faintly, roots stirring in restless response. If she pushes again, she’ll burn herself out, or worse.
I close the distance between us deliberately.
“Look at me,” I say.
