One second she’s there—blood on her hand, glass scattering, power flickering under her skin like a fuse just waiting for a match.
The next—
Light.
A sound like the air being sucked out of the room.
Her outline dissolving into nothing.
And then the bond hits me.
Not the forming of it—we’d crossed that line the moment our blood mixed and the universe decided it liked the idea of tying me to her.
No.
This is theafter.
This is what it feels like when a proximity bond is yanked across a void.
A white-hot wire wraps around my ribs and jerks hard enough to rip the breath out of my lungs. My knees almost give, and I catch myself on the wall like it’s the only thing in the room that isn’t collapsing.
Her presence—new, bright, raw—flashes once.
Then disappears into nothing.
Someone screams her name. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s Atticus. Maybe it’s the version of myself I was ten seconds ago, the one who thought the worst thing that could happen tonight was Blaise’s exile order.
My father grabs my jacket, screaming into my face. Councilor Willshire shouts something. Maylo’s laughing like he knows a secret he shouldn’t. The guards are yelling over each other, and Councilor Blaise is bellowing orders no one hears.
None of it matters.
All I can feel is the void where she should be.
A proximity bond isn’t supposed to behave like this. Space should dull it, not twist it. Distance should pull, not suffocate. It feels like trying to breathe around a fist clamped over my sternum.
A proximity bond.I have a bond.
I should have known. The pull to her presence was too strong.
Someone drags my father off of me. Someone else claps, trying to achieve order. Councilor Blaise is gone with the transporter before I get my bearings—like the coward he’s always been.
None of it matters.
I shove forward into the center of the platform, ignoring the hands grabbing at me, ignoring the shouting.
The space still carries the aftertaste of Arwen’s magic—burning and new and volcanic, like a power that doesn’t know the meaning of restraint.
She didn’t just get taken.
Shetriggered.
She manifested.
Without the damn potion. How?
A bitter laugh scrapes out of me. It’s not amusement. It’s disbelief sharpened into something dangerous.
Of course she didn’t need it. Of course she never did.
