Death Bound (The Soulsworn Chronicles #1)

Chapter 40

Chapter Forty

I was jolted awake by the soft knock at my door, the first pale light of dawn barely casting a glow across my chambers. I blinked, disoriented, and sat up, my head still swimming from the restless night. Before I could gather my thoughts, the door creaked open, and Ciaran stepped inside, his silhouette cutting a sharp figure in the dim light.

“Up,” he said. “We’re going for a walk.”

I stared at him, the fog of sleep making it hard to process his words. “A walk?” I repeated, blinking at him in confusion. “It’s barely morning. What are you doing?”

His eyes gleamed as he strode toward the bed, his presence filling the room. “It’s time we had a talk. Get dressed. We’ll walk through the gardens.”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, rubbing my temples as I tried to shake the fatigue from my mind.

“Why are we going on a walk?” I asked. I grabbed my cloak from the chair, throwing it over my shoulders.

Ciaran leaned against the doorframe, his gaze steady on me. “Because I think there are informants in my castle. The Dragon King—Valen— shouldn’t have been able to slip in without someone’s help. I want to see who’s passing him information.”

I pulled on my boots, narrowing my eyes at him. “And you think taking a stroll will reveal the spy?”

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Sometimes, when you do something unexpected, people show their true colors.” He turned and headed out the door, and I followed, still frustrated by the feeling that I was nothing more than a pawn in his larger game.

The scent of fresh herbs hit me as we stepped into Maris’s garden, a hidden oasis within the castle walls. Rows of lavender, rosemary, and unfamiliar plants lined the space, their vibrant leaves catching the early morning light. Maris knelt among them, her fingers delicately brushing over the plants, carefully plucking leaves with an almost reverent touch.

She glanced up at our approach, her green eyes lighting up briefly before she stood, dusting off her hands. Her pale blonde hair, tied back neatly, caught the sunlight filtering through the trees, making her look like she belonged in this quiet, peaceful space.

“Your Majesty,” she greeted Ciaran, bowing slightly. There was no hesitation in her voice, but her eyes shifted to me for a second, curious but wary. “I didn’t expect visitors so early.”

“I wanted to see how things were going here,” Ciaran replied smoothly, his tone light. “It’s been a while since I’ve walked through your garden.”

Her lips curved into a small smile, though the ease between them was almost businesslike. “Everything is thriving,” she said, gesturing to the plants. “I’m working on a new salve for the soldiers. Isolde has been testing it in the training grounds.”

At the mention of Isolde, I caught the faintest flicker in Maris’s eyes, the way her smile softened imperceptibly. It was subtle, but I noticed it—a quiet affection, a shared connection.

“That’s good,” Ciaran replied. “I’m sure it will be as successful as the last.” He picked up a sprig of rosemary, twirling it between his fingers before adding, “Your parents will be visiting again soon, won’t they?”

Maris sighed, the sound tinged with exasperation. “Yes, in a month’s time. They’ve written three letters asking if there are any grandchildren yet.”

Ciaran rolled his eyes, a dry smirk tugging at his lips. “Let me guess, I’ll have to play the doting husband again?”

Maris giggled, a sound so light and unexpected it made me blink. “Well, you are rather good at pretending. What excuse shall we give them this time?”

Ciaran pretended to think for a moment. “How about something new? I’ll tell them we’ve been too busy saving the kingdom from war.” He paused, his tone turning teasing. “Or maybe I’ll mention that you and Isolde are too busy tending to each other.”

I blinked, my mind spinning at the casualness with which he spoke, but Maris only laughed, shaking her head. There was no scandal in her response, no embarrassment, just an easy familiarity.

“We’ve thought about taking in one of the orphans left at the castle gates,” Maris said, her tone turning softer. “There’s a girl—six years old. Isolde and I have grown quite fond of her.”

Ciaran raised an eyebrow, his amusement still lingering. “Is that so?” He glanced toward the shadowed entrance to the garden, where Isolde remained, her dark eyes watching us. “You want to take her in officially?”

Maris nodded, her voice filled with quiet determination. “She’s smart. And needs love.”

I watched as Ciaran considered this, his eyes shifting from Maris to Isolde. There was no possessiveness in his expression, no sign that their relationship troubled him in the slightest. If anything, he seemed entirely at ease with the arrangement.

“Very well,” he said after a moment. “I’ll allow it. Whatever title you need to make it official, you have my permission.”

Maris smiled again, this time more brightly. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I think it will be good for her. For both of us.”

I caught the way her gaze flicked toward Isolde once more, the connection between them as clear as day now. It wasn’t loud or overt, but it was there, in the quiet looks, the shared decisions, and the subtle affection that passed between them. They didn’t need words to communicate what their marriage to Ciaran truly was—a cover for something far deeper and more genuine between them.

“You’ve done wonders with the hospitals and the universities,” Ciaran added, his voice shifting back to a more practical tone. “You’ve trained some of the best healers in the kingdom. Our soldiers wouldn’t stand a chance without your work.”

Maris inclined her head, her expression calm. “It’s what I was meant to do,” she said simply. “And with Isolde’s help, we’ve been able to expand our reach. The hospitals are running smoothly, and we’re training more healers for the frontlines.”

She spoke with such quiet confidence, the love between her and Isolde woven into every word, even if it wasn’t spoken aloud. It was clear that Ciaran respected her work, and she respected his role in funding and supporting the hospitals and healers. But it was Isolde who anchored her, not the king.

As we continued walking through the garden, Ciaran turned to me. “It’s a unique arrangement,” he said casually, as if testing my reaction.

I glanced between him and Maris, unsure of what to say. “It seems… efficient,” I managed, though I was still trying to process the dynamics between them.

Ciaran chuckled softly, as if my response amused him. “It works for all of us. And Maris ensures the kingdom has the best medical care while being able to focus on what really matters to her.”

This wasn’t about love or passion. It was about mutual benefit. Maris wanted to be with Isolde, and Ciaran needed her expertise and connections to keep the hospitals and universities thriving.

As we neared the edge of the garden, Isolde finally stepped forward, her dark hair cascading like a shadow down her back. She moved with a quiet grace, her gaze intense as it flipped between Ciaran and me. She said nothing, but when she stood beside Maris, it was as if the world around them shifted into focus. They belonged together, and Ciaran had never stood in their way.

“Is there anything else we should prepare for, Your Majesty?” Maris asked, her tone returning to its professional air.

“Not at the moment,” Ciaran replied. “Though, with the increase in patrols, we might need your healers sooner than expected.”

Maris nodded, her expression serious again. “We’re ready.”

As we turned to leave, I couldn’t shake the image of Maris and Isolde standing together in the garden, their hands brushing against each other as they returned to tending the herbs. There was no need for them to explain their love—it was there, quiet but unbreakable, protected by the very marriage that should have kept them apart.

And Ciaran, for all his power, was content to let them live their truth.

As we left the garden, Ciaran glanced at me, his amber eyes gleaming with a knowing glint. “I can see you’re surprised,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow, folding my arms over my chest. “I wasn’t expecting you to tell me any of that. It feels… personal.”

He shrugged, the movement casual. “It’s not much of a secret, really. Maris reached out to me herself. Proposed the marriage.”

I stopped in my tracks, turning to face him fully. “Wait—Maris proposed the marriage?”

Ciaran nodded, his expression calm, though there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “She’s smart. Knew I needed more healers. Her kingdom—Aldershade—they’re known for their noble bloodlines, but they’re… let’s just say, they have some backward ideas about women.”

My brow furrowed as I processed that. “Aldershade? I thought they were… I mean, I guess I didn’t realize.”

“They practically use noblewomen as breeders,” Ciaran said bluntly, his tone tinged with disgust. “Maris saw what her future would be like. She didn’t want to end up as another nobleman’s wife, producing heirs while being controlled by their barbaric traditions. So, she made a deal with me.”

“That’s… awful,” I muttered, my stomach turning at the thought. Maris, with her gentle nature and healing hands, trapped in a world like that—it didn’t sit right with me.

“It is,” Ciaran agreed. “But she’s smart. She knew she could leverage her skills. Maris negotiated for her freedom. I needed healers, she needed an escape.” He glanced at me, his lips curving into a dry smile. “Seven wives would be a lot of work, don’t you think?”

I couldn’t help but snort. “You’d need an army just to keep them all happy.”

He glanced at me, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Or maybe just one princess with ice in her veins.” He gave me a brief teasing look before leading me toward Therynne’s study.

As we entered, the familiar sight of cluttered scrolls and scattered books greeted us. Therynne was at her usual spot, hunched over a stack of ancient tomes, her fingers flipping rapidly through pages, her lips moving as she read to herself.

The room smelled of parchment and ink, and the soft sound of quills scratching against paper was almost soothing in the chaos of the rest of the castle.

Therynne glanced up, her glasses perched crookedly on her nose as she blinked at us in surprise. “Oh! Your Majesty, I wasn’t expecting you today.” Her voice carried the familiar rush of excitement, her hands already fluttering as she gathered her notes. “I’ve been deep in the archives, and I came across something fascinating!”

“What have you found this time?” Ciaran asked, his tone polite as ever.

Her eyes gleamed behind her glasses as she waved a hand toward the open books. “An obscure power, Your Majesty. Something hardly mentioned in the more common texts, but there are traces of it in the royal bloodlines of Everwinter.”

She paused dramatically, as if waiting for us to ask, but when neither of us immediately responded, she dove right in, unable to contain her excitement.

“It’s called chronomancy !” she exclaimed, her words tumbling out with increasing speed. “It’s a time-based magic, very rare. The ability to manipulate time itself—slightly, of course. Not full-on time travel or anything like that, but enough to slow down or speed up certain events. There’s evidence in the records that one of the queens of Everwinter used it during battle to give her soldiers an advantage.”

She pushed her glasses up her nose, her fingers tapping lightly against the top of the table. “The last recorded instance was over a century ago, but there are hints that it could still exist, dormant, in certain bloodlines. Can you imagine? The power to control time, even if just for a few seconds? The implications are extraordinary!”

I blinked, trying to keep up with her rapid explanation. “How… how does it work? Is it inherited like other powers?”

“Ah, yes!” Therynne beamed, clearly thrilled to have someone ask. “It’s believed to be a recessive trait, much like some of the rarer elemental magics. It only manifests when both parents carry the gene, and even then, it’s incredibly rare. I’ve been cross-referencing the genealogies of several noble families to see if there’s a pattern, but it’s still unclear.”

She rambled on, her fingers moving faster as she reached for a stack of papers. “I’ve found some fascinating connections between chronomancy and the way certain families pass down their powers. For example, in Icespire, there’s a consistent record of ice manipulation, but in a few generations, it’s accompanied by this slight time manipulation. It’s almost like the two are intertwined—frozen moments, so to speak.”

Ciaran leaned against the edge of the table, his expression calm as ever, but I could tell he was genuinely listening to her. He had a way of being patient with Therynne, as if he understood that her brilliance came with the price of these intense, unstoppable ramblings.

“And,” she continued, her voice gaining speed, “I’ve been theorizing that this could explain why certain noble families seem to have almost unnatural luck in battle. It’s not luck—it’s chronomancy! Slowing down the enemy’s reaction time by mere fractions of a second, just enough to give an advantage.”

“Fascinating,” Ciaran said, and though his tone remained measured, I could see the flicker of interest in his eyes. “And what does this mean for us?”

“Oh, well,” Therynne said, blinking rapidly as she seemed to remember herself. “It’s mostly theoretical, of course, but I believe there may still be traces of it in some of the royal families that have mixed with those from Icespire. If I could just get access to their full genealogical records, I might be able to find a living descendant who carries the trait. It could be incredibly valuable in… well, in many areas.”

Ciaran smiled slightly, his patience unwavering. “Thank you, Therynne. Your research has proven invaluable, as always.”

Therynne beamed, pushing her glasses up again. “Of course, Your Majesty. I’ll keep you updated on any new developments. And if you have time later, I’ve compiled a report on the potential magical lineages of our enemies!”

“Send it to my chambers,” he said smoothly, and with a nod to me, we left Therynne in her world of papers and theories.

As we walked down the corridor, Ciaran glanced at me with a raised brow. “She’s brilliant, isn’t she?”

“Brilliant doesn’t even begin to cover it,” I replied, still trying to wrap my head around the idea of chronomancy and all the other obscure magics Therynne had uncovered.

As we left Therynne behind, her excited murmurs already fading into the rustle of papers and the scrape of quills, Ciaran remained silent for a few moments, his expression thoughtful. The morning light filtered through the high windows, casting a soft glow on the castle’s stone walls. I followed him, still trying to process everything I had just heard about chronomancy, but my thoughts kept circling back to something else. There was always more to these wives of his, layers of stories that I couldn’t quite untangle.

“Therynne is the smartest person in this kingdom,” Ciaran said, breaking the silence as we walked. His tone was casual, but I could sense the deeper current of his words. He smiled slightly. “But she wasn’t always allowed to be.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

He slowed his pace, his amber eyes flicking toward me as if measuring how much he wanted to reveal. After a moment, he continued, “Where she’s from—Everveil—women aren’t allowed to study. Or at least, not beyond what’s considered appropriate for running a household. Everything about her talents was being wasted.”

I stopped walking, staring at him. “She wasn’t allowed to study?”

He nodded, his expression grim. “Her father was a minor noble in Everveil. A purist kingdom, much like Aldershade, but worse. Their belief is that knowledge is dangerous in the hands of women. They allow only the men to pursue education, while the women are expected to manage estates and… produce heirs. When I visited for a trade deal years ago, I met her by accident.” His lips quirked up in a faint smirk at the memory. “She was sneaking into her father’s study, going through his books, scribbling notes in secret. She was sixteen and already smarter than most of the men in that kingdom.”

The thought made my stomach churn—Therynne, with all her brilliance, forced into a life where her talents were stifled, her mind shackled by outdated traditions. “So, you brought her here?”

“Not immediately,” Ciaran replied, his gaze distant as he recalled the details. “I knew what I was looking at—raw intelligence, but completely untapped. She was desperate for knowledge, devouring whatever scraps of information she could steal. But she was terrified of being caught. Her father would’ve punished her severely if he knew.”

I clenched my fists, the idea of someone punishing Therynne for her curiosity filling me with quiet anger. “That’s barbaric.”

“It is,” he agreed. “But I couldn’t take her then. Everveil is strict about their noble families, and it would’ve caused a diplomatic incident if I’d simply spirited her away. So, I waited. When her father tried to marry her off to an older lord—one who had no interest in her mind, only her dowry—she reached out to me. Made me an offer.”

“An offer?” I echoed, my eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“Yes.” He smiled faintly, the memory clearly amusing him. “She had learned enough from her father’s ledgers to know that her family’s holdings weren’t as stable as they appeared. She used that knowledge to blackmail her father into releasing her. Then, she offered herself as my wife in exchange for the freedom to study here. It was bold—reckless, even. But it worked.”

I blinked, the full weight of what he was saying sinking in. “So you rescued her.”

“In a sense,” Ciaran replied, his tone careful. “But make no mistake—Therynne rescued herself. She’s the one who found the way out. I just provided the means.”

We walked in silence for a moment, the weight of his words hanging between us. I glanced back in the direction of Therynne’s study, imagining her trapped in a world where her mind was considered dangerous. She had fought for her place here, fought for the right to pursue knowledge that others would have denied her.

“You seem to have a habit of rescuing your wives,” I said quietly, remembering how Maris had also negotiated her freedom.

He let out a dry chuckle, but there was no humor in it. “I wouldn’t call it that. They all had something to offer—and I needed them as much as they needed me. It’s mutual benefit, not charity.”

“But still,” I pressed, “you didn’t have to accept their terms. You could’ve just married noblewomen with… more traditional roles.”

His amber eyes flicked to mine. “And what would that have gotten me? Wives who sit around, producing heirs and nothing else? No, I need partners, not ornaments. I need women who can help me build a strong kingdom.”

There was an intensity in his words that caught me off guard, and I realized that Ciaran wasn’t just collecting wives for political power. He was building something—something bigger than alliances and heirs. And each of his wives, in their own way, played a part in that.

“And what about me?” I asked, my voice softer now. “Why did you agree to this alliance with Icespire?”

We continued walking through the castle, the air between us thick with the weight of everything he’d said. Each of his wives had their reasons, their motives, their desires for freedom in some form. But where did I fit into all of this? I wasn’t here because I wanted freedom—I was here because I was trying to survive. And now, I was starting to wonder if survival was enough.

Ciaran stopped suddenly, his amber eyes flickering as he turned to face me. For a moment, he just looked at me, his gaze searching. Then, with a surprising gentleness, he reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The touch was unexpected, soft, and I froze.

“At first,” he said, “this was just an excuse to take on the Dragon King.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning, and I thought back to what he had said before—about the Dragon King taking someone from him. The pain in his eyes, the anger that simmered just beneath the surface. There was more to this than politics, more to this than power. But I didn’t press him. Not yet.

“And then I met you,” he continued, his gaze never leaving mine. “The abandoned princess raised in a crypt. Who cries when she watches women dance.” He paused, his eyes softening. “And eats food like she’s not sure when her next meal will come.”

I swallowed hard, the truth of his words hitting me like a blow to the chest. He had been watching me—really watching me—and he had seen through every wall I had put up. The cold, calculated princess I pretended to be was just that: a mask. And Ciaran had seen what lay beneath it.

He stepped closer. “Selene wanted the freedom to worship. Maris and Isolde wanted the freedom to love. Therynne wanted the freedom to study.” His gaze darkened slightly, his lips curling into a faint, bitter smile. “And Vivienne… she wanted freedom from the brothels.”

I stood there, feeling the weight of his words as he peeled back the layers of his wives’ stories. Each one had come to him seeking something. Freedom, escape, a way out of the cages they had been forced into.

But when he spoke again, his voice faltered. “And Lyra…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

I didn’t need him to finish the sentence. I knew what Lyra wanted. It was obvious in the way she looked at him, the way she spoke his name. She didn’t want freedom—she wanted him .

But before I could say anything, Ciaran’s gaze locked onto mine with a sudden intensity that made my breath hitch. His voice was quieter now, more intimate, as he asked, “What do you want, Aeliana?”

The question hung between us, the air growing heavy with tension. For a moment, I didn’t know how to answer. What did I want?

I let out a sigh, my chest tightening as I thought about everything that had led me here—the crypts, Aeliana, the lies I’d told to survive. I wanted to scream, to tear apart the walls that had been closing in around me. But more than anything, I wanted justice. I wanted revenge.

“I want…” I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. “I want revenge.”

The corners of Ciaran’s mouth twitched upward, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction. “Revenge,” he repeated. “I think I can deliver that.”

He took a step closer. “Revenge is a powerful thing,” he said softly, his voice like a caress. “But it’s also dangerous. It consumes you. It burns away everything else until it’s all that’s left.”

I held his gaze, my heart pounding in my chest. “I don’t care.”

His smile widened, the predatory glint in his eyes growing sharper. “Good,” he said. “Because neither do I.