The words fall like stones into the quiet. The council stirs uneasily. Elder Mora stills her hand in the air. My mother narrows her eyes, but doesn’t respond.
Zeidan takes a single step forward, not threatening, but not deferential either.
“She came here in good faith. She brought me through wards that should’ve torn my channels apart. You think that means she’s weak?” He lets the silence stretch. “She’s stronger than any of you want to admit.”
His voice lowers further, colder now.
“If you turn on her, don’t expect me to watch.”
The bond flares, not with anger, but with something else. Something possessive.
I freeze and so does the council. Even my mother falters. I can’t breathe for a moment. Not because I’m afraid, but because I know he means it.
8
ZEIDAN
Leaving Nytheria feels wrong in my bones.
The Wildspont watches as I give my final orders, its glow dim and uneven beneath the roots of the council hall. I can feel where it’s sick, fractured ley lines, old wards collapsing inward, magic cannibalizing itself to survive. This land is not dying quietly. It’s fighting…poorly.
“Start with containment,” I say, voice carrying across the gathered wardens and Purnas. “Seal the failing nodes before you attempt purification. If you rush the cleanse, you’ll rupture what little structure remains.”
They listen to me reluctantly. I know how much they hate taking orders from a Vrakken. But they obey, because they have no choice and need my magic and guidance.
I sketch a sigil in the air, it's a Vrakken one, old and sharp, and bind it to the nearest standing stone. The magic reacts immediately, stabilizing, humming low like a held breath.
Gasps ripple through the hall.
“This will hold for a short time,” I continue. “Not weeks. Days. You’ll need reinforcement from Velcryn.”
Every word tastes like a concession.
Amelia stands beside me, arms folded, her face calm and unreadable. But the bond tells a different story. She is stretched thin and exhausted. Furious beneath the surface. And afraid.
I hate that I can feel it, and I'm sure she hates that she has to rely on me.
“I’ll return to Velcryn,” I say finally. “There are relics, anchors. Old ones. They were forged for situations like this.”
The room shifts.
Amelia turns sharply. “You’re leaving?”
“For a short time.”
Her jaw tightens. “You said proximity?—”
“I know what I said,” I cut in, softer than intended. “This will help your land. Trust me.”
She doesn’t answer. But the bond pulls hard, protesting, screaming against the distance even as it hasn’t yet formed.
I hate that too.
We part at the edge of the inner ward. She doesn’t look back. I do. Once. That is a mistake…
I remain at the edge of the ward longer than necessary.
She stands beneath the trees, half-lit by the Wildspont’s failing glow, speaking quietly with one of the Purnas. Her posture is rigid, her shoulders squared like armor she refuses to lower. She hasn’t looked at me.