Some instinct whispers that I am not entirely alone in this realization.
“Then I suppose,” I say softly, “we’re going to have to learn how this works.”
Because if the demon who calls me his mate is tied to my fear…Then the only way to survive Briarthorn’s growing suspicion is to ensure that fear never controls me again.
The thought settles into my mind with surprising clarity. For a long moment I remain standing by the window, my hand still pressed lightly against my chest where the strange warmth of the bond continues to pulse.
It no longer feels frightening. Strange, yes. Unexplainable. But not frightening. Which is perhaps the strangest part of all.
I think back to the first moment I truly saw him, standing in the alley where Garruk had cornered me. The towering horns. The glowing brass colour of his eyes. The impossible heat curling through the air around him.
A creature out of every cautionary tale whispered to children after dark. And yet the memory does not fill me with dread. Instead, something warm stirs beneath my ribs. Safety. The realization makes me blink in mild disbelief.
I lean my shoulder against the wooden frame of the window and stare out at the quiet marsh beyond the cottage. Pale reeds sway gently in the afternoon wind, their soft rustling the only sound breaking the stillness.
When he stands near me, the fear that has followed me these past days disappears entirely. It is not simply that he protects me. It is something deeper than that. When he is close, the world itself feels… steadier. As though whatever chaos the bond threatens to unleash is somehow anchored by his presence.
My thoughts drift back to the way he looked standing in my cottage the night before. His sheer size should have been terrifying in such a small room. The dark obsidian of his skin, the faint glowing fractures beneath it, the immense wings folded behind his shoulders. And yet the thing I remember most clearly is not his power. It is his eyes. Molten gold. Not wild or monstrous, but sharp, intelligent, watchful. Mesmerizing.
I exhale slowly, realizing I have been staring at the marsh without truly seeing it. The truth presses gently at the edges of my thoughts. I want to speak with him again. Not because I am afraid. Because I need to understand. Because the bond ties us together in ways neither of us fully explained.
And because, if I am honest with myself, his presence no longer feels like something to dread. It feels… necessary. The admission sends a faint warmth through my chest. Across the bond, something stirs in quiet response. I frown slightly. Does he feel that?
The thought makes my cheeks warm unexpectedly. Perhaps that is reason enough to try solving this without him. I straighten from the window and begin pacing slowly across the small room.
A healer solves problems through observation and patience, not by surrendering control to forces she does not understand. If the bond reacts to fear, then I must learn to control fear. Breathing exercises. Mental discipline. All things I already teach my patients when pain threatens to overwhelm them.
Surely the same principles can apply here. And yet…
My gaze drifts once more toward the window. Toward the quiet stretch of marsh beyond it. Toward the subtle sense of presence that has begun to feel strangely familiar these past two days.
A quiet certainty settles in my chest. He is nearby. I cannot explain how I know this. The bond simply… tells me. I press my lips together thoughtfully. Perhaps I could learn this alone. But the warmth in my ribs pulses again, stronger this time, as though gently reminding me of something obvious.
This bond does not belong to me alone. I sigh softly and rest my hand over my chest once more.
“If you’re listening,” I say quietly to the empty room, “this would be a very good time to explain a few things.”
The silence that follows stretches just long enough to make me wonder if I imagined the connection entirely. Then the warmth in my chest deepens slightly. And suddenly I am very certain that I am not speaking to an empty room at all.
8
THREXIAN
Iknew she would call for me.
The bond had been restless all afternoon, her thoughts circling the same realization again and again as she examined the pattern between fear and fire with the methodical patience of a healer diagnosing an unfamiliar illness. Curiosity had replaced fear, and with each step closer to the truth the bond hummed with quiet anticipation.
Elowen does not retreat from uncertainty. She studies it. So when her voice finally breaks the silence of the cottage, I am already standing just beyond the window.
“If you’re listening,” she says to the empty room, “this would be a very good time to explain a few things.”
The invitation settles through the bond like the turning of a key. I step through the shadows and into the cottage. She turns immediately. Her gaze finds me without surprise, as if some quiet instinct had already warned her I was there.
“You were listening,” she says.
“I usually am, princess.”
Her brow lifts slightly. “That is unsettling.”
