The attendants burst back into the room; their movements no longer measured but rushed. Their eyes dart nervously to the windows where warning lights flash across the magical barriers.
“Security breach in eastern wing,” one attendant mumbles nervously, adjusting the ceremonial tiara with trembling fingers. “But ceremony proceeds on schedule—Lord Theron’s orders.”
Of course it does. Whatever is happening, Faelan won’t let it interrupt his carefully orchestrated plan. Which means I have limited time before those seven binding moments begin.
The tiara settles onto my head, its weight significant. More enchantments woven into precious metal, more hooks seeking to anchor themselves in my essence. The necklace follows—a collar of moonstone and silver. This isn’t adornment, it’s a leash.
Eight guards surround me as we move through the palace corridors, their weapons drawn and steps precise. Four leading, four following—not the usual three who stood outside my door.
I keep my expression perfectly neutral as alarms pulse through the crystalline walls. The palace wards ripple visibly, defense systems activating in waves that send silver-blue light cascading across the translucent surfaces.
My fingertips brush against the heavy fabric at my sides, the layers of silk and enchantment offering no hidden pockets, no concealed weapons. I came here with nothing but my healing abilities and my wits. Those will have to be enough.
Callum’s presence grows stronger with each step. Western corridors—I can almost feel him fighting closer. The sensation intensifies—no longer distant but immediate. Real.
“Faster,” the lead guard commands, his hand gripping my arm more firmly than protocol allows.
I comply with practiced grace, maintaining the appearance of cooperation while my senses map every detail. Guard positions doubled at each junction. Magical barriers strengthening—visible now as crystalline webs across windows and doorways.
We round the final corner, the grand throne room doors looming ahead. Their surface ripples with ancient enchantments, pulsing brighter as the ceremony magic builds inside.
The lead guards halt before the massive doors. Through the translucent crystal, I glimpse the ceremony participants assembling in formal rows. Prince Korren stands rigidly near the central altar, waiting.
The tribunal members arrange themselves in ceremonial formation—seven figures in ancient regalia, their expressions solemn. Each represents a realm touched by this alliance.
King Finnian and Queen Aoife are notably absent—visiting King Thaldiran and Queen Astryl in Tarlan, conveniently removed from witnessing this farce.
But the sour note beneath the ceremonial magic turns my stomach. Faelan’s corruption signature pulses through the entire chamber, unmistakable to my healer senses. He’s here personally, though I cannot yet identify which form he’s taken.
The doors begin to open, ceremonial music filtering through—ancient, ethereal notes that mark the first binding preparation.
My father stands near the altar, his posture unnaturally rigid. The grief manipulation is visible even from this distance—subtle magical tendrils wrapped around his aura, tightening whenever his resolve wavers.
I take a measured breath, schooling my features into serene acceptance as I prepare to cross the threshold. Callum is minutes away—I feel his determination like a physical force, burning through whatever connects us.
I must stall.
I step into the throne room as the first notes of the binding ceremony begin.
Chapter 33
Callum
Iduck low as a blast of magic explodes against the crystalline wall beside me, sending iridescent shards scattering across the marble floor. The palace magic ripples in response, defense systems pulsing brighter with each strike.
“Left flank!” Ben signals, his fingers flashing commands through the chaos.
Without hesitation, Rhonan spins toward the approaching guards, drawing a deep breath. The dragon fire erupts from his throat in a controlled burst, not to kill but to create an impassable barrier between us and the next wave of reinforcements.
“That won’t hold them long,” Rhonan warns, his Drakorian accent thickening under stress. “Fae guards are trained for elemental counters.”
Every nerve in my body screams toward the massive doors ahead. Lyanna. Our tether pulses like an exposed nerve, drawing me forward with magnetic intensity. She’s close—so fucking close—but I can feel the ceremony magic building through our connection.
“Derek!” I bark.
He appears at my side instantly, eyes already tracking the guard rotations. “They’re shifting patterns. Doubling up at the western approach. But—“ his eyes narrow, ”—there’s a three-second gap when they rotate. If we time it right ...”
Rafe’s hands glow with disruptive magic, targeting the shimmering wards blocking our path. The crystalline barriers waver, creating temporary openings before snapping back into place.
