“So no more bindings,” I continue. “If you want to run, run. I won’t stop you. But I hope—” I stop, unable to finish the thought. Unable to admit what I’m hoping.
She steps closer, close enough that steam rises between us again, and takes my hand. Lightning sparks at the contact—gentle this time, controlled, almost tender. “I’m not running.”
The bond swells with relief so profound it steals my breath.
“We need to keep moving,” she says, but she doesn’t let go of my hand. “Together.”
Together. The word shouldn’t mean as much as it does. Shouldn’t reshape my entire understanding of what I’m doing, who I’m becoming, what I’m willing to risk for a woman I met days ago and can’t imagine losing.
But it does.
I squeeze her hand once—acknowledging, accepting, surrendering to something I can’t name yet—and pull her toward the edge of the reed bed. Away from the unconscious hunters. Away from Caspian’s reach. Toward a future that’s becoming less about duty and more about choice with every step we take.
The bond hums contentedly as we run side by side. My water magic and her lightning, separate but harmonizing, like two notes in a chord that shouldn’t work but creates something beautiful anyway.
Behind us, the reed bed burns. Ahead, more dangers wait. But for this moment—her hand in mine, our magics dancing together, the impossible made real—I let myself believe we might actually survive this.
8
ZARA
My lightning found a home in his water. That’s not supposed to be possible.
We run until my lungs burn and my shoulder screams protest. Torin moves ahead of me with that effortless grace water-dwellers have, reading the terrain like a language written just for him. I stumble over roots I can’t see in the dim light, splash through pools that hide their depth, and try not to think about the six unconscious hunters we left behind.
Try not to think about what we did to them.
What we did together.
The bond hums with every step, alive with the memory of our magics merging. I can still feel it—the way my lightning poured into his water shield and became something more. Something neither of us could create alone. The sensation was intoxicating. Terrifying. Like touching a live wire and feeling it welcome me home.
“Here.” Torin’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. He’s stopped ahead, gesturing toward a crack in a moss-covered cliff face. “There’s a grotto. Dry. Hidden. We can rest.”
Rest. The word sounds like a fantasy.
But I follow him through the narrow opening because I trust him. Because the bond tells me he won’t lead me anywhere dangerous, even though my rational mind knows that’s exactly the kind of thinking that gets diplomats killed.
The grotto opens up beyond the crack—not large, maybe fifteen feet across, but blessedly dry. Bioluminescent moss clings to the walls in patches, providing enough light to see by. A natural shelf of stone runs along one side, and the ceiling curves high enough that I don’t feel the familiar press of claustrophobia.
It’s perfect. Or as perfect as a cave can be when you’re running for your life.
Torin moves to the far side, already scanning for threats, for exits, for whatever tactical assessment Sentinels make automatically. The motion pulls his shirt tight across his shoulders, and that’s when I see it.
Blood.
Dark against the wet fabric, spreading from a tear I didn’t notice before.
“You’re hurt.”
He glances down, almost surprised. “It’s nothing. Spear graze.”
“Let me see.”
“Zara—”
“Torin.” I cross the distance between us before he can argue further. “Let me see.”
For a moment, I think he’ll refuse. His jaw tightens, that stubborn set I’m starting to recognize. But then something in his expression softens—acceptance, maybe, or just exhaustion—and he turns his back to me.
