I drop into a low chair, burying my face in my hands. What would my mother have done? Fought, probably. Spat in his face and walked out.
But this isn’t her war. It’s mine.
I strip off my gloves and stare down at my hands. The veins glow faintly, as if reacting to the bond magic in the air. I should be scared. I am scared.
And still, a part of me wonders what it would feel like. To have that connection. To be seen. To be known.
I spend nearly an hour pacing. Back and forth, hands clenched, thoughts spiraling. I draft and discard a dozen possible refusals, rehearse arguments he’ll never hear, counterpoints Zeidan won’t accept.
But they all fall apart when I remember how he looked at me, like he knew something I didn’t.
Like the bond wasn’t a threat, but a door. And gods help me, part of me wanted to open it.
I force myself to meditate. I light a small crystal flame and draw runes in the air, trying to ground myself. But the magic hums wrong here. Unfamiliar. And when I close my eyes, I don’t see light.
I see a shadow.
My breath catches.
I open my eyes, half-expecting the room to have changed, but the stone walls are still there, the crystal flame still flickering weakly. Whatever I saw isn’t here. Not yet.
I exhale slowly, forcing my shoulders to loosen. I’ve pushed myself too hard. Too much travel. Too much fear. Too much of him lingering in my thoughts like a spell I didn’t cast.
“It’s just exhaustion,” I whisper, though the words don’t quite convince me.
I extinguish the flame with a flick of my fingers and cross to the bed. The linens are cool and heavy, smelling faintly of night-bloom and steel. I lie back, staring up at the dark ceiling, tracing the unfamiliar constellations carved into the stone above me.
I don’t mean to sleep. I tell myself I’ll rest for a moment. Just long enough to clear my head.
The sigil over my heart pulses. Then again.
The shadows in room seem to stretch, thickening, blurring. My limbs grow heavy, pinned not by fear but by something softer and pulling.
The last thing I think, as the darkness folds in around me, is his voice—low, controlled, dangerous.
And then I fall.
The vision comeson like a storm.
I’m standing in the heart of Velcryn, but it’s not the city I saw. It’s older, rawer, cloaked in mist and blood. The towers rise like fangs into a blood-red sky. And I am not alone.
Shadows wrap around me, not like chains but like breath, curling over my skin, whispering in forgotten tongues.
At the center of it all stands Zeidan. His eyes glow brighter than moonlight, and his voice reaches me like a caress and a command.
"Come to me."
I try to move. My legs won’t obey. My heart slams against my ribs.
"Blood calls to blood," he says. "You cannot run from it."
The shadows pulse.
And then I wake, gasping, drenched in cold sweat.
Outside, the bells toll midnight. And the sigil over my heart is burning.
4
