Valen’s hands are loosely folded in front of him, his silver-blue eyes steady, kind.
“It’s not just power that ties you together,” he says quietly. “It’s choice.”
He leans back slightly, giving me space to breathe, space to think.
“Power can be given, or taken. It’s something you’re born with. Something that can be forced on you, even corrupted. But choice?” He meets my gaze, steady and sure. “That’s different. That’s yours. Always.”
He lets the silence stretch for a beat, then adds, softer still, “And choice . . . choice is stronger than any curse. Even his.”
I flinch. Just barely. But he sees it.
“You think you were bound by fate. That the prophecy, the bond, the power—you didn’t ask for any of it.”
His voice stays gentle, but there’s weight behind it.
“But the reason it matters . . . the reason it’sreal. . . is because you stay. Becausehedoes. Because you keep choosing each other. Over and over.”
His words fall like quiet truths, settling into the space between us.
“That bond may have started with magics. But what keeps it alive? What makes it sacred? That’s human. That’syou. Both of you.”
He says it like truth.
My throat tightens. And before I can bury the question, it escapes.
“Do you really believe that, Valen?”
My voice cracks at the edges. Because some part of me—quiet and desperate—needsthe answer to be yes.
Valen doesn’t answer right away. He studies me, something almost unbearably kind in his expression. And when he speaks, his voice is low and certain.
“I do.”
He leans forward slightly, his gaze steady. He lets the wordshang there, simple and true, like a lantern in the dark.
I shake my head, barely. And then, quieter still—
“But none of this feels like a choice, Valen.”
My voice is low, rougher than I mean it to be. It cracks something open in the silence between us.
Because how can this be a choice when the bond chose me? When the magics chose me? When the prophecies named me before I even had a say?
Valen’s face softens. He doesn’t rush to answer. He just watches me with those steady silver-blue eyes—the way you might watch someone drowning, waiting for the right moment to reach for them.
“Sometimes,” he says quietly, “the choice isn’t in what happens to us. It’s in how we carry it.”
He lets the words settle between us, a soft, unshakable truth. And even though part of me rails against it—wants to scream that it’s not fair, that I never asked for any of this—a deeper part of me knows he’s right.
The door swings open suddenly, breaking the quiet. Both Valen and I turn.
Thane strides back into the room, his expression lighter. Steadier. Two members of the outpost staff follow behind, each carrying large trays laden with food.
The rich, savory smell of roasted chicken fills the air, mingling with the earthy scents of late-summer vegetables—carrots, squash, green beans, all seasoned and steaming.
My stomach growls again.Loudly.
Valen glances sideways at me with the ghost of a smile. Thane hears it too. His lips twitch—half-smirk, half-relief—as he returns to the table.
