His hand brushes my shoulder and Ifeelhim — panic, love, guilt, the chaotic swirl of his magic reaching for mine — and a sound tears from my throat.
“Don’t—”
I don’t know if I’m talking to him or to all of them or to the bonds themselves.
“Everyone stop.” Malrik’s voice cuts through the chaos. His voice reaches me before his emotions do — calm, commanding, an anchor in the storm. “Give her space. Now.”
Finn freezes mid-reach. His magic spikes again, crackling visibly in the firelight. He looks like he’s been gutted. Torric and Aspen go still. Even Kieran, propped on his elbow with those gold eyes finally open, doesn’t move.
But it doesn’t help.
I can still feel them. All of them. Pressing against my mind like hands reaching through fog.
“I can’t—” My voice comes out broken. “It’s too much. I can feel—allof you. Everything. I can’t—”
My heart is racing. Vision tunneling. Hands shaking against the cold stone.
The bonds are pulling in six directions at once, and I’m going to fly apart.
Bob surges forward.
He plants himself between me and the others — a wall of shadow and silent fury. Steve stumbles into position behind him, trips over his own edges, but stays there anyway. Determined.
And Mouse.
Mouse climbs onto my chest.
His small, warm weight settles against my sternum, and hevibrates. A low, steady purr that I feel more than hear. The rhythm syncs with my heartbeat — or maybe my heartbeat syncs with him. Either way, it’s grounding. Real. Something to focus on that isn’t the overwhelming flood of everyone else’s emotions.
Walter pulses somewhere above us. Slow. Steady. The chaotic static screaming through my skull starts to dim, and I don’t know if that’s him or the breathing or Mouse or all of it together.
My shadows wrap around me like a cocoon.
The sensory input starts to fade. Just slightly. Just enough.
“Kaia.” Malrik’s voice, from a few feet away. He hasn’t moved closer. He’s kneeling, hands visible, posture deliberately non-threatening. “Breathe with me. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.”
I try.
My breath stutters. Catches.
“Again,” he says. Steady. Patient. “In for four.”
I breathe in. One. Two. Three. Four.
“Hold.”
I hold.
“Out for four.”
I breathe out. Shaky. But real.
“Good.” There’s no judgment in his voice. No frustration. Just that steady, anchoring calm. “Again.”
We breathe together. In. Hold. Out.
The panic starts to loosen its grip on my chest.
