“She survived,” I answer. “The magic bond was forged. It holds.”
There’s a beat of silence. They are definitely trying to gauge the situation.
“She should not have,” Yrelda murmurs. “Not if the bond flared as violently as they say. There is more to this, isn’t it?”
I offer nothing. I keep silent. They don't have to know exactly how strong Amelia is or that there is a mating bond between us, urging us to accept it. They circle like wolves now.
Serida steps forward, studying me with those calculating, viper-bright eyes. “You’re feeling it more than you should.”
I let out a soft exhale. “The magic bond is... responsive.”
“Responsive?” Hessa laughs once. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Serida ignores her. “We’ve studied these rituals. The bond should be dormant, erratic at best in the early days. And yet you sit here breathing her magic like it’s your own.”
I don’t flinch. “We knew this wouldn’t be standard.”
“She’s affecting you,” Yrelda says sharply. “You’re compromised.”
“She’s my responsibility. That’s what I agreed to.”
Serida’s expression sharpens. “Then fulfill your end. Accompany her back to Nytheria. See the state of her people. Aid them, if the bond allows it. But we expect your reports. And keep this little Purna ona tight leash. The bond doesn’t serve her. It serves you. And you serve us. Don’t forget that.”
I nod once. That, at least, was always part of the plan.
“And Zeidan,” Serida adds as I turn.
I pause in the doorway.
“Remember who you belong to.”
I say nothing. But the bond answers for me, flaring warm under my skin, wild and defiant.
We leave Velcryn at dawn.Six guards ride with us, all silent, all carefully trained not to look at us too long. Amelia wears her cloak high and her silence higher. The bond still hums between us, pulling tight when we drift too far apart. But we both pretend we don't feel it. She doesn’t speak to me the whole time.
When the rains begin, they come hard and fast. By the time we reach camp, the ground is already soaked and the tents struggle against the wind. The guards erect the shelter quickly, but only one is large enough to be insulated from the arcane storm crawling in from the west.
“There’s only one stormproof tent,” Garrick says, handing me a dry cloth. “You and the Purna will have to share.”
Amelia glares at him, then at me. I don’t flinch. “Fine,” she mutters. “But if you snore, I’ll set you on fire.”
I roll my eyes and duck inside first, stripping off my gloves. The air inside the tent is warmer, but barely. Rain still drumsagainst the canvas like a war drum. Amelia enters a heartbeat later, dragging wet hair out of her face, her boots slopping with mud.
Her eyes flick to the single bedroll in the center of the tent.
“Of course,” she mutters. “One tent, one bed. How very convenient.”
“I didn’t plan the weather,” I say, sitting without ceremony. “But feel free to sleep in the mud if you want to make a point.”
She peels off her damp cloak with more force than necessary. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Me freezing to death while you brood in comfort.”
“If I liked it, I’d have asked for two tents and left yours open to the storm.”
She glares at me. “You’re insufferable.”
I arch a brow. “And you’re soaking the floor.”
She looks down, then growls under her breath and steps aside to remove her boots. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”