And I’m starting to think I don’t want it to.
5
TORIN
The bond is a splinter I can’t remove. It aches when I ignore it. Burns when I don’t.
We emerge from the tunnels into a marsh that exists in the liminal space between underground and surface—a place where the water table rises to meet the air, creating a maze of shallow pools and reed beds beneath a ceiling of tangled roots. Pale light filters through gaps in the canopy above, not quite sunlight but close enough that Zara lifts her face toward it like a flower seeking the sun.
The bond pulses with her relief, and I feel it in my own chest—an echo of emotion that isn’t mine but might as well be.
I hate it. I crave it. I can’t tell the difference anymore.
“We’ll camp here.” I scan the marsh, reading the water the way she probably reads the wind. Safe currents, no predators nearby, a raised hummock of dry ground where we can rest without sinking. “I need to hunt. You need to eat.”
“I’m fine.”
“You haven’t eaten since before I pulled you out of the river. You’re not fine. You’re stubborn.”
She opens her mouth—to argue, probably—then closes it. The bond tells me she’s exhausted, hurting, hungry in a way she’s been trying to hide. Pride. I understand pride.
“Stay here,” I tell her. “Don’t wander. The marsh has sinkholes that would swallow you whole.”
I wade into the nearest pool before she can respond, letting the water close around my calves, my thighs, my waist. The marsh speaks to me immediately—temperature gradients, current patterns, the small bright sparks of fish moving through the shallows. I close my eyes and reach out with my magic, not grabbing but inviting.
Come, I tell the water.Bring me what I need.
The fish come. They always do. Silver bodies flash through the murky water, drawn by a call they don’t understand but can’t resist. I gather them gently—no hooks, no nets, just the water itself cradling them, lifting them into my waiting hands. Three fat marsh-trout, enough for both of us.
When I turn back toward the hummock, Zara is watching me.
Her expression is... I don’t have words for it. Wonder, maybe. Fascination poorly hidden behind diplomatic neutrality. The bond hums with her interest, and I feel an unfamiliar warmth spread through my chest.
Pride. She’s impressed, and I’mproud.
When did her opinion start to matter?
“That was...” She trails off as I climb onto the hummock, water streaming from my clothes. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“It’s nothing special. Any Deep Runner child could do the same.”
“Maybe to you.” She’s still staring at the fish in my hands. “To me, it looked like magic. Real magic. Not the controlled, measured kind they teach in Alliance academies. Something older. Wilder.”
I don’t know what to do with that. Don’t know how to hold the way her words make me feel—seen, somehow, in a way I haven’t been seen since Mira died.
I busy myself with preparing the fish instead of answering.
She’s hurting morethan she’s letting on.
I see it in the way she moves—stiffly, favoring her right side, jaw clenched like she’s biting down on a scream. The bone is set. The stitches are holding. But the break beneath it is still there, grinding every time she shifts wrong.
She hasn’t shifted since the attack. Hasn’t even mentioned it. I suspect she’s afraid to—afraid of what the pain would be if she tried to manifest the wing that took the hit.
Like she’s afraid that if she lets them spread, she’ll feel the damage too clearly to pretend it isn’t real.
And the bond won’t let me pretend. It carries her pain straight into my ribs, a dull ache that spikes whenever she breathes too shallow or lifts her shoulder too high. A warning. A demand.
I tell myself that’s why I go looking for herbs. Strategy, not sentiment. A prisoner in pain is a liability.
