Chapter 30
THIRTY
J ust as her eyelids grew heavy, the tether shimmered. Thora bolted upright as the golden cord contracted violently, just as it had in the bathroom.
“What the—” she gasped as an invisible force yanked her from the bed.
Down the hall, she heard Artair’s startled exclamation. The bedroom door flew fully open as the tether dragged her into the hallway. At the same moment, Artair stumbled out of his room, pulled by the same magical force.
They collided in the middle of the hallway, Thora’s momentum carrying them both against the opposite wall. Artair’s arms wrapped around her to cushion the impact, their bodies pressed together from chest to knee.
“This is getting ridiculous,” Thora breathed, acutely aware of his warmth through the thin T-shirt.
“The magic seems to have ideas of its own,” Artair replied, his voice hushed in the darkened hallway.
Neither moved to separate. The tether glowed softly between them, contracted to barely two feet now.
“It won’t let us sleep apart,” Thora stated the obvious, trying to keep her tone matter-of-fact despite the intimacy of their position.
Artair nodded, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “We have two options. We can try to sleep in the hallway, or...”
“Or?”
“We share a room.”
Thora swallowed. The rational choice was clear, but something about voluntarily sharing sleeping space with Artair made her heart race. “Fine. A room. But separate beds.”
“My room has a daybed near the window,” he offered. “It’s meant for reading, but it should work.”
“Lead the way,” Thora said, stepping back from his embrace with reluctance she refused to acknowledge.
Artair’s bedroom was larger than the guest room, dominated by a massive king-sized bed. A leather reading chair and the mentioned daybed occupied a windowed alcove. Moonlight streamed through the glass, bathing the space in silver.
“You take the bed,” Thora insisted. “I’ll make do with the daybed.”
He looked like he wanted to argue but nodded. “There are extra blankets in the chest at the foot of the bed.”
They prepared for sleep in awkward silence, navigating the shared space with careful movements to avoid further contact. Thora settled onto the daybed, which proved narrower than she’d hoped but still reasonably comfortable.
“Goodnight,” she said again, turning her back to the room.
“Goodnight, Thora.”
The sound of her name in his deep voice sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing sleep to come quickly.
Despite her exhaustion, consciousness lingered. She listened to Artair’s breathing across the room, noting when it eventually slowed and deepened with sleep. Only then did she allow herself to relax, her own breaths synchronizing unconsciously with his.
Dreams came swiftly, more vivid than any she’d experienced before.
A young girl huddled on a rooftop, knees pulled to her chest as she gazed at stars barely visible through city light pollution. Below, an orphanage stood dark and quiet. Loneliness pressed against her small body like a physical weight.
“You’ll never belong,” a voice whispered in her memory. “Too different. Too strange.”
The scene shifted. A teenage boy stood in a massive office, staring at a portrait of a stern-faced man. The weight of expectation settled on his young shoulders like a cloak.
“They’re gone,” someone said softly. “You have to be the man of the family now.”
Grief and responsibility intertwined, crushing him with their combined power.
Thora jolted awake, disoriented. The dreams felt impossibly real—especially disturbing because the second dream wasn’t hers. She’d never seen that office or that portrait, yet she recalled every detail with perfect clarity.
Across the room, Artair sat upright in bed, his expression mirroring her confusion.
“The orphanage rooftop,” he said quietly. “You used to stargaze there.”
Thora’s breath caught. “How did you know that?”
“I saw it. In my dream.” His eyes searched hers in the moonlight. “Just like you saw my father’s office after the accident.”
“That’s impossible.” But even as she denied it, Thora knew he spoke the truth. Somehow, they had shared dreams—experienced each other’s most vulnerable memories.
“The tether,” Artair murmured, glancing at the golden cord connecting them. “It’s doing more than just keeping us physically close.”
A shiver of unease—or was it excitement?—ran through her. “This is...”
“Extraordinary,” he finished.
Their eyes met across the room, a new understanding forming between them. The magical bond had breached barriers more personal than physical space—it had opened a window between their very minds.
In that moment of shared vulnerability, Thora felt more exposed than if she’d stood naked before him. He’d seen her childhood loneliness, the deep-rooted fear of abandonment that she’d buried beneath years of independence.
And somehow, impossibly, she’d witnessed his pain too—the crushing responsibility that had fallen on him too young, the grief he carried beneath his confident exterior.
“Did you...” she began hesitantly, “Did you see anything else?”
Artair’s gaze remained steady. “Fragments. A caretaker who told you stories about constellations. The first time you shifted and how terrified you were.”
Thora nodded slowly. “I saw your parents’ funeral. The way you held your sister’s hand the whole time.”
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken emotion.
“This isn’t normal,” Thora finally said, wrapping her arms around herself. The T-shirt suddenly seemed too thin, too revealing. “Even for magical mishaps.”
“No,” Artair agreed. “It’s not.”
The tether pulsed gently between them as if responding to their conversation. Its golden light cast soft shadows across the room, creating an intimate bubble that seemed separated from the rest of the world.
“We should try to sleep,” Artair suggested, though his tone lacked conviction. “Tomorrow, we’ll figure this out.”
“Right,” Thora nodded, lying back on the daybed.
She closed her eyes but remained acutely aware of Artair across the room—not just his physical presence, but something deeper, a new awareness that hadn’t existed before their shared dreams. His emotions brushed against her consciousness like whispers: concern, confusion, and underneath it all, a strange comfort at not being alone with his memories anymore.
She wondered if he could sense her feelings too, and what he might find there.