His eyes meet mine again, and I see it—that flicker of concern, buried beneath the usual calm. It’s rare.
And it terrifies me.
“There are . . . old accounts—older than any clan record still standing,” he says finally. “Scattered, mostly. References to connections formed in the earliest days of Elemental wielding. Powerful, dangerous, sacred. Some called them soul-threads. Others warned they weren’t bonds—they were fusions. Harder to control.”
I swallow hard. “That’s not possible. We’re not . . . ”
“Thane.” His voice cuts clean through me. “Itmightbe.”
I stare at him.
He continues, low and careful. “If what you felt was real—if her pain passed into you like that—then this is more than proximity, more than instinct. This is somethingolder.Something I thought lost.”
I shake my head. “You mean some old bloodline myth? A legend?”
“No,” he says, firm now. “I mean something real. Buried, yes. Erased, maybe. But not gone. I think . . . ” Valen’s gaze flicks back to Amara. “ . . . we’re seeing a bond that hasn’t stirred in centuries.”
My stomach knots. I take a step back like the words physically struck me. Valen’s hand drops from my shoulder, and I’m suddenly aware of the coolness where his touch had been—like the last thread holding me steady just slipped away.
“No.” The word hits too fast. “That’s not possible.”
Valen doesn’t argue. He just watches me, quiet, which somehow makes it worse.
“You’re talking aboutmyths,” I snap. “Stories for wide-eyed initiates. Noble-sounding bullshit meant to make legends feel real. Bonds that link fates? It’s not real.”
But even as I say it, the words feel hollow. Because Iknowwhat I felt.
The blood. The tearing pain. The way her body went limp in my arms—how I knew it before I even looked down.
My hands are shaking again. I clench them into fists again, hard enough my knuckles pop.
“She’s . . . ” I can’t finish the sentence.
Valen doesn’t let up. “It doesn’t matter if you believe it, Thane. It’s happening. And whatever this is—I believe it’s old. Older than the clans. Older than what we’ve been allowed to remember.”
That last part hits different.
My gaze snaps to him. “What do you mean,allowed?”
He meets my stare, steady as ever. But I can see it now—the caution. The restraint. Like he’s holding back a truth I’m not supposed to hear.
Valen holds my gaze a second longer. Then he says it—soft. Careful.
“History is written by those who survive it. And sometimes . . . rewritten by those who want to control what comes next.”
My blood runs cold.
“Rewritten how?” I demand.
He doesn’t answer right away. Glances toward the doorway—like someone might be listening. Then, almost under his breath: “I have learned that some truths were buried after the Shadow Wars. Some clans had . . . reasons.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“You’re saying the bond—whatever this is—it waserased?”
He doesn’t confirm. Doesn’t have to. The silence is answerenough.
But I shake my head hard, jaw tight.
