He is furious. Afraid. And above all, stunned.
I bolt upright with a gasp, and he mirrors the movement a second later.
"What did you do to me?" I demand, voice hoarse.
His black eyes narrow. "I did exactly what you agreed to."
"That wasn’t a bond, that was a storm. You said it would be controlled!"
He stands fully, towering above me. He appears like he is fine, but I can sense how he is still trembling from the magic force. "You think I expected that? You think I wanted to be thrown halfway across the chamber by a wave of ancient magic? Besides, you knew the risks; consider yourself lucky you survived. And this fated mate thing means absolutely nothing, changes nothing."
I nod and push to my feet, swaying. My legs feel like reeds in the wind. The bond thrums inside me, an uninvited chord humming just beneath the surface of my awareness. My sigil burns on my wrist, hot and alive. I stare at it in awe. It's the most intricate and beautiful thinking I have ever seen. It looks graceful and deadly like both of us.
I brush trembling fingers over the glowing lines. They’re raised slightly, like old scars that haven’t decided whether to fade or bloom. Power lingers in them, not just magic, but intention. I feel it curl under my skin, anchoring itself deep, deeper than spells ever should.
My breath shudders out. This isn’t just a symbol. It’s a tether. A brand.
Who am I now, with this on me? Am I his? Is there anything mine left?
The Wildspont hums faintly beneath my ribs, not in protest but in curiosity, like even the oldest magic is trying to adjust to this new shape of me. Of us.
Zeidan winces, clutching his side. "You should sit before you fall again."
"Don’t tell me what to do."
"Then collapse. See if I care."
The bond pulses at that, sharp, like a snapped thread pulling taut. His anger pricks against my nerves like pins. I feel it like it's mine. I stumble back a step, shaking my head. "Gods, this is…"
"Unstable," he finishes. "You need rest. So do I. Can we stop trying to snap at each other and just call it a day till we recover?"
I glance at the ritual circle. The runes are still glowing faintly, but the air no longer crackles. The storm has passed…for now.
Zeidan gestures toward the doors. "The bond will continue to fluctuate until it roots fully. That means proximity."
"Proximity?"
He looks vaguely apologetic. "We can’t be more than a room apart for the next few days. Or the backlash might rupture the bond before it settles."
"So now I’m stuck with you?"
He smirks. "Try not to sound too thrilled."
We walk in silence through the citadel’s halls, flanked by wary guards and servants who avert their eyes. Everyone knows what we’ve done. They can feel it in the way the air warps around us, like the bond has left a scar on the stone.
When we reach the guest wing, a single chamber has been prepared. It’s large and beautifully austere: all dark velvet, carved obsidian, and moonlight spilling in through a narrow arch of stained crystal. There are two beds. But they’re close. Too close.
Zeidan pauses in the doorway, tension tight across his shoulders.
“I’ll take that one,” he mutters, nodding toward the bed near the door.
“Fine,” I say, too tired to bicker.
We move quietly. I sit on the edge of my bed, peeling off my outer layers, leaving only the soft underdress beneath. The room feels too warm and too cold at once, like my skin doesn’t know how to react to the lingering hum of bond magic still coilingbetween us. Zeidan doesn’t speak, but I can feel him in the room, the weight of his gaze, the rough edge of his fatigue, the fraying pulse of his control.
When I lie back, the silken sheets feel both luxurious and suffocating. The sigil on my wrist glows faintly in the dark. I lift my hand and study it, this thing that wasn’t there hours ago.
It’s not just a mark. It’s a map.