“With the bond,” he explains, “your magic is no longer limited to Nytherian channels. You are harmonized with Vrakken power. Amplified. Stabilized. If you direct that fusion into the root system and collapse it completely, the Wildspont will not decay. It will rupture.”
The implications settle slowly and precisely.
“You want the coven erased,” I say.
“I want leverage removed,” he corrects. “Without the Wildspont, Nytheria loses strategic value. The remaining Purna become displaced. Displaced mages are unprotected mages. Unprotected mages are negotiable.”
“For you to sell.”
“For me to control.”
His gaze sharpens slightly.
“Ancient bond magic such as yours destabilizes my network. Loyalty without contract. Power without transaction. It introduces unpredictability into markets that function best under fear.”
The bond hums quietly beneath my skin.
“You miscalculated,” I say.
He pauses, mildly intrigued.
“You assumed the bond weakens me.”
“No,” he replies evenly. “I assumed it makes you persuadable.”
He steps closer, and the sigils flare brighter, tightening around my magic like a firm hand around a pulse.
“I wish you to renounce it,” he continues. “Willingly. A bond freely given can also be freely surrendered. Aid me in stabilizing the collapse of the Wildspont. Publicly sever your allegiance to the Vrakken prince, but only after you use his power to destroy the Wildspont. Help me ascend beyond the petty limitations of regional control, and I will preserve a fraction of your people.”
My stomach turns cold.
“And the rest?” I ask.
He does not answer. The silence speaks clearly enough. Grief rises like a tide, but beneath it something steadier answers. The bond responds, not violently, not in panic, but in presence. It anchors me to something uncorrupted by calculation.
“You believe you understand power,” I say quietly. “But you only understand acquisition.”
The faintest shift touches his expression.
And then the chamber trembles. It is subtle at first, a low vibration beneath stone. Malrend’s head tilts slightly.
“That,” he murmurs, “is unexpected.”
The outer wall fractures not with an explosion, but with displacement. Stone peels back as though reality itself has been unstitched. Darkness spills through the opening, not absence, but force.
Zeidan steps through the torn barrier with wings unfurled in full, unrestrained expanse. Shadow coils around him, cutting through warding structures like a blade through silk. His presence does not merely fill the chamber; it alters it.
Behind him, Purna magic surges into the corridor beyond, root-callers and warriors forcing their way through collapsing wards. I hear Ron’s voice somewhere in the distance, fierce and unyielding, and the distant flare of Vrakken sigils striking against Malrend’s outer defenses.
Malrend exhales slowly, as though observing an impressive maneuver in a game he had not expected to escalate so quickly.
“So,” he says quietly, “the mate arrives.”
Zeidan’s eyes find mine instantly.
The bond surges, no longer muted, no longer strained. It locks into place with ferocious clarity.
“You will step away from her,” Zeidan says, his voice controlled but edged with something ancient and lethal.