The bond pulses again, softer this time, and I let it. Just for a second. Then I huff out a breath and drag my focus somewhere safer. Because if I start pulling at that thread too hard, I’ve got a feeling everything’s going to come apart in my hands.
And I’ve only just stopped pretending I don’t want to hold onto it.
Instead, I focus on the more immediate problem.
I’m bored out of my fucking mind.
Two days. Two days of lying here, being poked, prodded, told to “rest,” like I’m not already crawling out of my own skin. Food gets delivered, and I’m led to and from amenities to piss and shit by Ludgen—a large Glowranth who has a Dreting mate—when I need to relieve myself.
Two days of seeing Varek exactly once per day.
Evenings.
Like clockwork.
He shows up, checks on me, stands there being large and silent andthere, and then sleeps on the damn stone floor before kissing me sweetly and disappearing again.
Back into his command post and the rebellion that won’t lead itself.
He has people to command, a world to not let burn down. And maybe even dozens of other worlds to find a way back to.
I get it—him not being here. It doesn’t mean I like it.
I push myself upright with a hiss as my ribs protest. The furs shift under me, dragging slightly against my skin as the room tilts for half a second.
I wait it out, breathing slowly, steadying my breaths.
The glow in the walls pulses, indifferent. Then I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
Cold stone meets my feet, grounding—solid, real. “Look at that,” I mutter. “Up and mobile. Someone alert the authorities.”
I wince and pause, hoping like hell someone isn’t lurking outside of the quarters. I don’t think anyone is stationed in the corridor, but you never know.
When no one answers, I breathe a small sigh of relief before slowly standing. My body’s never been carved or hard-edged, but it’s mine. It’s gotten me this far.
Pain spikes—bright and sudden—but it recedes quicker than it should. Again.
Yeah. Definitely the bonds.
Lucky me.
I brace a hand against the stone wall beside the bed. It’s cool under my palm, faintly humming with that same low, living energy as the rest of the place.
“All right,” I say under my breath.
The stone doesn’t answer back. It never does. No mirrors here, no polished surfaces to check how wrecked I look—just uneven rock, that low, steady glow, and the quiet weight of a place that was never meant for comfort.
“We’re doing this.”
I push away from the wall and take a careful step towards the doorway.
The corridor beyond curves gently to the left, the same as I remember—nothing in Dathanor runs straight unless it absolutely has to. The walls narrow and widen without warning, like the whole place breathes around you, shifting just enough to keep you aware you’re inside something old and not entirely predictable.
I move slowly at first. Partly because I have to, and partly because I’m taking it in.
Nine years is long enough to forget details, but not the feeling. That comes back quick. The quiet hum of the bioluminescence threading through the stone. The way sound carries strangely—too far in some places, swallowed entirely in others. The constant sense that everything here is deliberate, even when it looks rough or unfinished.
People move through the tunnels around me.
