That’s the best he’s getting.
Velcryn swallowshim whole the moment we arrive. The Matrons demand him in chambers before the sun has fully set. He leaves me in guest quarters lined with black stone and silver inlay, guarded but untouched.
He doesn’t come back that night. Or the next.
The bond strains under the distance even within the same citadel. I feel his exhaustion. His restraint. His irritation as he navigates political venom and veiled threats.
But I don’t feel him beside me. And that’s worse. The bond does not like distance. I discover this the hard way.
It starts as a pressure behind my eyes, a dull ache that sharpens every hour Zeidan spends across the compound instead of down the hall. By the third day, my magic refuses to settle at all. It skitters beneath my skin like trapped lightning, misfiring at the smallest provocation. By nightfall, my hands shake when I try to light a candle.
Zeidan feels it too. I know because the bond tells me, a steady pulse of restrained irritation, concern buried under control, the constant, unrelenting pull toward me like gravity misaligned.
“This is inefficient,” he says finally, standing in the doorway of my guest quarters like he’s negotiating a treaty instead of invading my personal space. “You’re deteriorating.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, sitting stiffly at the small table where my dinner has gone untouched.
“You’re glowing,” he replies flatly.
I glance down. He’s right. Faint threads of magic curl along my wrists, bright and unstable.
“…Fine,” I amend.
The silence stretches. He looks at me and then:
“I’ll stay,” he says.
My heart stutters. “Stay… where?”
His gaze flicks meaningfully to the room. The bed. The hearth. The single, very much single living space.
“This is temporary,” he adds, too quickly. “Until the bond stabilizes.”
“Of course,” I say, equally fast. “Purely medical.”
“Magical.”
“Right. Magical.”
Neither of us moves. Eventually, he steps inside. Forced proximity turns out to be its own kind of torture.
Zeidan does not pace, but he does occupy space with infuriating efficiency. He leans against walls like they were designed for him. He removes his gloves and sets them downwith deliberate care. He stands too close without touching, his presence brushing my awareness constantly, the bond humming low and satisfied now that the distance is gone.
We trade barbs like it’s a competitive sport neither of us is willing to lose. This is our routine now. Everytime we act nice to each other we then pretend it meant nothing.
“You’re scowling again,” I tell him, squinting down at the page as if deciphering ancient runes instead of cataloguing the way his jaw tightens when he’s annoyed.
“I don’t scowl,” he replies calmly.
I glance up. “Your face has been carved into permanent disapproval.”
“That’s just my face.”
“No,” I say thoughtfully. “This one’s specific.”
His eyes flick to mine, unimpressed. “Yesterday you ignited a basin of water.”
“It was aggressive water.”