“You hunted a woman across half the realm because she betrayed you,” he says. “You carved yourself hollow afterward so it wouldn’t happen again. Fine. I understood that. We all did.”
His gaze hardens.
“But this isn’t that.”
I look away for the first time. Ron exhales slowly.
“You’re in pain,” he says. “Which means the bond is reacting. Which means she is too.”
The truth of it settles heavily.
“You don’t get to punish yourself by punishing her,” he finishes.
“I am not punishing?—”
“You locked yourself away while she’s alone in a hostile council chamber.”
That hits. Because he is right.
“You are commander of the Vrakken guard,” I say quietly. “Not my conscience.”
“No,” he agrees. “I’m your brother.”
I look at him. He is not my stupid brave little brother anymore. He has grown up at the front. I even think he is gotten wiser than me. Of course, I would never tell him that. Ron studies me one final time.
“If you don’t go to her,” he says calmly, “this will tear you apart from the inside. And I will not watch that happen twice.”
Twice. He does not say Sabrina’s name. He doesn’t need to. For a long moment, I remain seated. Then I rise. The movement costs more pride than pain.
Ron steps aside, but not before clasping my forearm in a warrior’s grip.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, a faint smirk returning despite the tension, “I like her.”
I arch a brow.
“She terrifies half the elders without raising her voice,” he adds. “That earns respect.”
Against my will, something steadies inside me.
“And Zeidan,” he adds as I move toward the door, tone sharpening just slightly, “if you try to martyr yourself again, I will drag you back by the collar.”
A faint huff of breath escapes me. Almost a laugh.
“I would like to see you try.”
His grin is brief and fierce.
“Go,” he says.
And this time, I do. The corridor feels longer than it ever has. With every step toward her chambers, the bond tightens,not violently, but urgently. It no longer aches with distance. It strains with need.
I do not knock. The door yields beneath my hand. The room is dim. No lamps lit. No wards flaring. Just silence.
She is on the floor.
Curled on her side near the edge of the hearth rug, as if she meant to stand and never made it that far. Her hair spills across the stone. One hand is fisted in the fabric at her chest.
Her lips move.