Thaelyn’s breath shuddered out. She backed a step, the cold seeping into her bones. “My truth is that I can’t want or ever have someone like him. He’s a prince with royal blood, and I'm nobody.” Thaelyn swallowed hard. Her throat felt raw, her chest heavy. She turned from the dragon, eyes stinging. “I need some air,” she muttered. “I need to breathe.”
She started back toward the path, each step slower than the last. The bond hummed faintly in her chest, steady and quiet, defying her anger.
Behind her, Nyxariel’s voice drifted like thunder receding into the distance.“You may walk away, Stormborn. But the wind follows what it claims.”
Thaelyn didn’t look back. She didn’t have to. The ache between them pulsed once, low and alive, refusing to fade.
The war room was lit only by the blue glow of the map that stretched across the table. Commander Dareth stood at the head, cloak drawn back, both hands braced against the scarred wood table. His voice rolled low and deliberate, carrying the weight of too many sleepless nights. “The southern ridge has gone quiet. Too quiet. Our scouts vanished near the Avenwall ruins two nights ago. I want a small team to investigate before the council stirs panic.”
Thorne barely heard him. The words fell like stones into deep water, swallowed by the pressure building behind his ribs. It started faint, just a flicker. Then the pulse came.
A heartbeat that wasn’t his. He stiffened. The air turned thick. Each breath scraped like smoke in his lungs.
“Kieran,” he interrupted, voice rough. “Something’s?—”
The commander didn’t turn. “We need to finish our plan and deploy.”
But it wasn’t something Thorne could ignore. The tether pulled again, harder this time. The sensation was a surge of heat down his arms, fire laced with panic. For a single, flashing instant, he saw her. Thaelyn. Moonlight on her hair. Fear on her face. Three shadows closing in. Then pain. Sharp. Desperate.
His hand slammed down on the table, cracking the wood. The candles flared, spilling light into the room.
Kieran’s eyes snapped to him. “What in the seven hells?”
Thorne didn’t answer. The bond roared through him, no longer a whisper but a storm,her storm, alive and breaking. He could feel her pulse as if it beat inside his chest. Her terror bled through the connection, raw and real.
“She’s in trouble,” he breathed.
“The girl?” Kieran’s tone sharpened.
“She’s fighting, no, she’s failing,” Thorne said, chest heaving. “She’s trying to reach her magic, and it’s not there. She’s defenseless.”
The torches along the walls flared, shadows twisting like living things.
“Control it,” Kieran warned, stepping closer.
“I can’t.” Thorne’s voice cracked, and the shadows at his feet began to stir, responding to his panic. “She’s breaking apart. I can feel it. I canfeelthem touching her?—”
The commander’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder. “Focus, Thorne. Anchor yourself. You must not lose control.”
Thorne was gone.
The fog clung thick along the courtyard path as Thaelyn wrapped her cloak tighter and quickened her pace. The night was too quiet.
She’d left the training fields after Nyxariel’s warning, her thoughts tangled with the dragon’s words, too heavy to bear. She only wanted air. Space. A moment of silence.
She turned a corner and froze.
Three cadets stepped from the mist, older and armed, their laughter low and sour.
“Well, look what the bond dragged in,” one sneered, blocking her path.
Her pulse jumped. “Get out of my way.”
“Not so fast.” The second drifted behind her. “No dragon now, Princess?”
“Enough,” she snapped, but her voice shook.
“Oh, she’s demanding, maybe she likes it rough,” said the third, his voice low and taunting. “What do you think, does the bond make you scream? We can make you scream, Princess.”
