“Yes.”
His gaze moves over the massive roots threading through the earth, the faint glow pulsing beneath bark and moss. “I’ve never felt magic like this before.”
“It’s older than most kingdoms,” I say. “Older than the covens.”
“And dying,” he replies.
The bluntness makes my chest tighten.
“Yes.”
He rides a little closer, lowering his voice. “How long?”
I blink. “What?”
“How long has it been failing?”
The question catches me off guard. Not suspicion. Not strategy. But concern? From him?
“Months,” I say finally. “Maybe longer. We didn’t realize at first. The Wildspont hides its wounds.”
“And you?” he asks. “When did you know it was serious?”
“When the spirits stopped answering.”
The bond flickers, a pulse of quiet understanding from him.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I almost laugh. Zeidan Valesh apologizing feels stranger than the bond itself.
We’re barely past the first wardstones when the guards appear. Blades drawn. Eyes wide.
One of them, Clara , lowers her weapon first. "Heir Crow?"
I nod. "Stand down. We’re expected."
Her gaze flicks past me to Zeidan, and I feel the instant her magic recoils. She steps back like struck. "That thing is Vrakken."
"He’s my guest. Under bond protection."
"That’s impossible."
I step forward. "No. It’s not."
Clara’s grip tightens on her blade.
“You brought him here?” she whispers, horror cracking her voice. “Into Nytheria?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes flash with betrayal. “After everything they’ve done to us?”
Behind me, Zeidan remains perfectly still. I can feel his restraint through the bond, the careful control of instinct, the readiness to defend if necessary.
“He’s under bond protection,” I repeat. “Which means he is under mine.”
Another guard steps forward. “If the Council sees this?—”