I lower myself to sit beside him, the earth cool beneath my palms, my heart hammering against my ribs.
For a moment, neither of us speak.
Then—softly, barely above a whisper—”I’m sorry.”
His brow pinches, barely perceptible. “For what?”
I let out a breath, running my fingers over my knee, steadying myself.
“For—”
I hesitate. How do I even begin?
“For fighting this. For blaming you. For—” I shake my head. “I was so angry that I never had a choice in any of this. I kept telling myself none of this was mine to choose. That everything was happeningtome. And I think I . . . ” I swallow hard. “I took it out on you. And I hated myself for it, even while I did it.”
His jaw tightens. He looks away—thinking. When he finally does, his voice is quieter than I expected.
“I understand.”
I blink. “You do?”
He nods once, slowly.
“I know what it’s like to have your entire life mapped out before you ever had a chance to choose. I know what it’s like to carry something you never asked for.” His gaze meets mine, steady, unshaken. “I know what it’s like to wish, just for a moment, that it wasn’t you.”
I watch him. This man who has carried more than the realm will ever see. Who has stood beside me, unwavering, even when I tried to push him away.
And something inside me . . . softens.
Thane.
The man who has never left.
For the first time since all of this bond business started, I truly stop resisting. I reach out, fingers brushing over the back of his hand.
A quiet touch. A thank you. A peace offering.
He stares at our hands for a long moment. Then—slowly, deliberately—he turns his palm, letting our fingers thread together. And it feels like something shifting into place. Like it belonged there all along—but I only just noticed.
We stay there, side by side, beneath the old oak tree, fingers intertwined, the silence stretching between us like something fragile. Something unspoken.
The morning air begins to warm. A breeze stirs the loose strands of my braid. From the training grounds, the scent of damp earth and smoldering embers drifts toward us.
Thane doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. He just sits there, steady as ever, the warmth of his hand deeply reassuring.
For the first time since arriving at the outpost, I stop thinking about the war, the prophecy, the training, the weight of everything pressing down on me. For the first time, I let myself just exist. With him.
Then—it happens.
A faint, quiet pull in my chest. Not painful. Not overwhelming. Just—there. Undeniable. Like a second heartbeat—familiar, but not mine. A thread of warmth winding through my ribs, curling around something deep inside me.
I tense, inhaling sharply. Thane notices instantly. His grip on my hand tightens, because he felt it too.
I turn my head slowly, meeting his gaze. Smoke-gray eyes. Sharp. Watchful.
Thane tilts his head slightly, his voice low, rough. “You felt it too.”
Not a question—a statement.
