Mwe and Oeta had warned me they could do far worse than sever bonds. And the Nyaviel… the Nyaviel weren’t just comparable to the Verya. They were the same kind of ancient, unbearable power—maybe even more.
The training session below shifted again. All three males moved together now—rotating sparring, combination drills, the kind of coordinated violence that came from learning to function as a unit. Zyxel was the weak point—slower, less certain, his body still fighting against unfamiliar mechanics. But he was improving. Each rotation went smoother than the last. Each recovery came faster.
“He’s doing well,”Vowels observed.“Considering.”
“He shouldn’t have to do this at all.”
“No. But he chose to. They all chose to.”The golden presence brushed against my consciousness like a hand against my cheek.“You inspire that kind of devotion, Selena. Whether you intended to or not.”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
The sound of footsteps on stone drew my attention from the training yard. Two familiar presences bloomed at the edgeof my awareness—one clinical and precise, the other warm and musical.
Xylo and Odelm.
My Favored.
They approached without hurry, giving me time to register their arrival before they reached my side. Xylo’s teal eyes swept over me in automatic assessment—cataloging my posture, my color, the tension in my shoulders. His healer’s instincts never rested.
Odelm settled against the railing beside me, close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. His empathic senses would be reading my stress like it was his own.
“He’s persistent.” Odelm watched Zyxel take another hit, roll, recover. “I’ll give him that.”
“His form is improving.” Xylo moved to my other side, completing the bracket. “He’s learning the patterns faster than I expected.”
“They’ll need to be ready.” My voice came out rougher than I intended. “The Chamber…”
“Will be dangerous.” Odelm’s fingers brushed my arm, the touch feather-light. “But you’ve faced danger before. You’ve survived worse than politicians and posturing.”
“Have I?” The question escaped before I could stop it. All the exhaustion I’d been holding at bay pressed against the inside of my chest—heavy, suffocating. “I was kidnapped. Tortured. I almost died. I would have died if Vowels hadn’t…”
I trailed off, unable to finish.
We stood at the railing, the night breathing around us.
Below, the backyard glowed with bioluminescent life—ferns lit from within, petals opening and closing in slow pulses of blue and green. Solar orbs casted warm arcs of light across the training circle where Kaede moved with lethal grace, Ryzen matched him strike for strike, and Zyxel learned—stumbled,corrected, adapted. Metal flashed. Bodies collided. The sounds of impact carried softly through the jungle air.
I watched them for a long moment before speaking.
“I anchored him,” I said finally. “Ryzen. I tied his lifeforce to mine.”
Xylo didn’t stiffen. Didn’t flinch.
“Not like you,” I added quietly. “Not like the clan. It’s not… deep. Or intimate. But it’s there. Along the edge of my shields. Enough to keep him from spiraling.” I swallowed. “Enough to ground him. He’s training me. Teaching me how to expand, how to control what I am. It made sense.”
The jungle hummed. A blade rang against another.
Xylo’s gaze stayed on the training circle, calm and knowing. “I’ve always felt a draw between you,” he said, as if stating something obvious. “A resonance. So tying him to you was only natural.” He turned then, teal eyes steady on mine. “You have nothing to worry about. If your instincts told you to do it, then it was right.”
Relief loosened something tight in my chest.
Odelm shifted closer, leaning his forearms on the railing beside mine. “Among the Circuli,” he said gently, “nestqueens often accept those who are drawn to them. Not every connection becomes love. Some remain… distant. Held with care but not cultivated.” A small smile curved his mouth. “I’m not saying that’s what will happen with Ryzen. Only that it’s natural to keep space if space is needed.”
“I know,” I said. “He doesn’t even know what he wants. Not from me. Not from anyone.”
Xylo nodded. “And in his grief, allowing him to unravel when you had a way to stop it would have been irresponsible.” His hand found mine then—cool, steady, a healer’s touch meant to anchor rather than claim. “You’re carrying too much weight, Nestqueen. You always do.”
Xylo’s hand found mine. His skin was cool, steady—a healer’s touch designed to ground and center. “You’re carrying too much weight, nestqueen. You always do.”
