Mortimer’s eye sockets flared brighter. “Ah. Oh dear. Oh, this is quite remarkable.”
“Remarkable isn’t the word I’d use.”
“No, I imagine not.” The lich leaned closer, skeletal fingers hovering over the document. “This is the original Draven curse contract, yes? Two centuries old, written in blood and binding magic?”
“You know about the curse?”
“Everyone knows about the curse, Mr. Draven. Your family’s misfortune is legendary.” Mortimer’s tone was matter-of-fact. “What I didn’t know was that the contract had been stored here in Sweetwater Cove. Fascinating choice.”
Marina’s confusion pressed against the edges of his awareness, sharpening into horror.
“The curse isn’t relevant right now,” Alessandro said. “What’s relevant is the bond. How do we break it?”
Mortimer’s eye sockets dimmed, then brightened, then dimmed again: the lich equivalent of a wince.
“You can’t.”
Alessandro’s breath left him. Beside him, Marina made a small, strangled sound.
“Explain,” Alessandro said.
“The bond you’ve created is…” Mortimer paused, searching for words. “Unprecedented. You have selkie magic: transformation, sea-binding, emotional resonance. The selkies’ ability to forge deep connections is legendary, Ms. Pearl. Your grandmother, I believe, was particularly gifted in that regard.”
Marina’s grief caught him off guard—a sharp contraction in his chest that wasn’t his, quickly suppressed.
“And you, Mr. Draven,” Mortimer continued, “contribute dragon magic. Fire, hoarding, territorial claiming. Dragons mate for life, as I’m sure you know. Your kind doesn’t form casual bonds.”
Heat prickled at Alessandro’s collar. He knew. Every dragon knew.
“Add to this the enchanted coffee, a luck charm, I’m told, which has the delightful property of amplifying whatever magic it touches. And an ancient blood contract already saturated with two centuries of curse energy.” Mortimer spread his skeletal hands. “The combination has produced something that doesn’t appear in any literature I’ve consulted.”
“There has to be a way to break it.”
“There is. Time.” Mortimer steepled his fingers. “The next full moon is in twenty-eight days. At that point, the bond will dissolve naturally, provided neither of you takes action to maintain it.”
“What kind of action?”
“Mutual declaration under the full moon. Both parties stating, clearly and willingly, that they choose to remain bonded.” Mortimer’s skull tilted in what might have been amusement. “Given your current… dynamic, I suspect that won’t be an issue.”
Alessandro absorbed this. Twenty-eight days. Less than a month. He could survive anything for less than a month.
“What are the rules?” His voice came out steadier than he felt. “The limitations?”
“You cannot be more than fifty feet apart. The pain increases exponentially with distance. At sixty feet, you’ll both collapse. At a hundred feet, the bond will attempt to drag you back together by force.” Mortimer glanced between them. “I recommend staying well within the limit.”
Marina leaned forward. “What else?”
“Strong emotions are shared. Anger, fear, joy, desire; anything intense will bleed through the connection. Physical contact amplifies the effect.” Mortimer paused. “I would advise against… intimate contact. It won’t make the bond permanent, but it will deepen the connection significantly. The shared emotions would become more intense. The distance limitations more restrictive.” Mortimer’s skull tilted. “You would feel each other’s physical sensations as well as emotional ones.”
Alessandro felt heat rise to his face: actual heat, the dragon responding to his embarrassment with a flush that probably made him look like he was about to breathe fire. Marina’s mortification bled through. His ears went hot, her cheeks wentred, and the whole thing looped between them until he couldn’t tell whose embarrassment was whose.
“That won’t be a problem,” he said.
“No,” Marina agreed, her voice slightly strangled. “It definitely won’t.”
They didn’t look at each other.
The walk back upstairs was silent.
