“That’s called nuance.”
“That’s called inefficient.”
I snort despite myself and trace the spiral glyph etched into the page. The book beneath my fingers is old, older than the schism, if the marginal notes are any indication. The script shifts between Nytherian root-language and something sharper, older. Vrakken-adjacent.
My stomach tightens.
“This isn’t just bond lore,” I murmur. “It’s… intersectional. Wildspont convergence theory.”
Zeidan straightens slightly. “Meaning?”
I hesitate, then meet his gaze. “Meaning our bond didn’t just tie us together. It may have anchored something else.”
He steps closer. The bond responds instantly, a low thrum under my ribs. I ignore it.
“There are references here,” I continue, tapping the page, “toburied Wildsponts. Dormant ones. Sealed after catastrophic overchanneling.”
“Catastrophic,” he repeats. “As in cities lost?”
“As in gods intervened.”
That earns me his full attention.
Zeidan exhales slowly. “Read that part again.”
I do. Out loud this time.
When blood binds blood beneath the living root, the earth remembers its first breath. Power answers power. And the buried heart stirs.
Silence stretches between us.
“That vision you saw,” I say quietly. “The ash. The crown. It might not be about destruction.”
His jaw tightens. “Or it might be about apotheosis.”
The word lands heavy.
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t say that.”
“You asked me to help you find the truth,” he replies evenly. “Not comfort you.”
I hate that he’s right.
We work in silence for a while after that. Scrolls shift. Pages turn. At some point, I realize how close he’s standing, how his shoulder brushes mine every time he leans in to read. The contact sends a ripple through the bond, warm and grounding.
“Your handwriting,” he says suddenly, glancing at my notes. “It’s… precise.”
I blink. “Thank you?”
“It matches you,” he adds. “Controlled. Sharp. Refuses to soften for anyone.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I’m beginning to.”
I close the book a little too hard. The sound echoes sharper than I intend. Dust stirs between us.
I don’t look at him when I speak. “You sent me something. The night you left. A vision of a beautiful place.”