I jerk a hand toward Amara, still surrounded by healers. “She’s lying there covered in blood and you want to talk in riddles?” My voice roughens, sharper than I mean it to be. “I don’t give ashitabout ancient secrets right now. Unless it’s going to help her wake up. I need her to wake. Tobreathe.”
Valen nods once, composed as ever.
That calm? It grates.
Makes me want to drive my fist straight through the nearest wall. I clench my jaw so hard it aches, swallowing down the urge to lash out. It wouldn’t help. It wouldn’t change a damn thing.
Valen sighs. “And she will. But you asked what’s happening. I’m telling you.”
I glare at him, but I can’t hold it. The anger collapses. Leaves only fear, raw and pulsing behind my ribs.
I press my hand against the stone wall behind me like it might hold me up. “Just tell me when she’s stable.Please.” The word scrapes my throat on the way out.
His voice drops, low and sure. “You’ll be the first to know.”
Valen steps closer.
“May I?” Valen asks, voice low.
I nod, barely. I know he wants to help.
He steps closer and places a hand on my back—steady, sure. The kind of anchor onlyhecan be. My mentor. My oldest tether to reason.
I’m reminded of how he helped me hold it together after Mother died. How he kept me steady when Father got sick. How he brought me back when I didn’t know who I was without them.
I breathe into the contact, willing myself to stay grounded, to loosen the sharp pull in my chest. That unbearable hook lodged in my heart—tearing, ripping—eases.Just a little.
I feel his magics—Marenai—pulse through me, subtle andpracticed. A calming current, like the breath of wind before a storm breaks. It doesn’t steal the panic, doesn’t erase the fear—but it helps me stand.
The tearing becomes a gentle pull. My nerves begin to settle, even as the ache in my chest lingers.
But the fear doesn’t move. It coils tighter.
Because she’s still not awake.
Valen drops his hand but stays close.
I lean back against the wall and let my head fall against the cold stone. The chill bites through my sweat-damp hair, but I don’t move.
The tearing eases—leaving a low, constant throb I can’t shake. Like a hook I can’t remove. A thread I didn’t choose.
Whatever this bond is . . . it runs deep—like something ancient, buried, and waking. And I don’t know what that means.
For her.
For me.
For what lives in my blood.
I’ve kept it buried. Controlled. Contained. Every breath, every step, every ounce of discipline I have—it’s to make sure it stays that way.
Because this bond—this thing that’s tethered us—I don’t understand it. I don’t know where it came from. Or how far it goes.
Or what the cost will be.
She doesn’t know what’s part of my blood. What rots beneath. Something I’ve spent my life trying to suppress, to contain.
But this bond—thisconnection—what if it rips open what I’ve kept sealed? What if this bond lets it bleed into her?
