15. Chapter 15 #2
"You're the opposite of fine. You—" he pointed at me, "—look like you want to stab something.
He—" a gesture toward Eryndor's back, "—looks like he's already stabbed something and is contemplating burying the body.
And you two—" Serenya and Dreadscale, "—are doing that thing where you pretend nothing's wrong while very clearly noting that everything is wrong. "
"Your point?" Eryndor didn't turn around.
"My point is that we need a distraction." Maxx cracked his knuckles with theatrical flair. "Lucky for you, distractions are my specialty."
He raised his hands. Glamour magic shimmered at his fingertips—with an iridescent gleam I'd seen him use a dozen times. Ghost armies to scatter soldiers. Walls of fire that burned without heat. The invisibility that had failed so spectacularly against Dreadscale.
And once, memorably, a perfect copy of Eryndor that had tricked me into feeling things I still wanted to murder him for.
"Watch and be amazed," he said. "I call this one 'Maxx Saves the Day'—featuring me, heroically, doing something very impressive."
The magic pulsed.
The grove should have been filled with a glamour-Maxx slaying a dragon, or winning a duel, or being carried on the shoulders of an adoring crowd.
Instead, the grove filled with figures.
Us.
Glamour-Serenya stood at the edge of the grove, her back already turned. She was already moving deeper into the trees, each step smooth and certain.
Glamour-Dreadscale followed. Then Glamour-Eryndor. Then Glamour-me.
One by one, they walked into the trees. None of them looked back.
And Glamour-Maxx stood in the center of the grove, alone, watching them go with an expression I'd never seen on his face before.
Devastation.
The real Maxx's hands dropped. The magic snapped off like a candle being snuffed—but not before we'd all seen. Not before the image had burned itself into the air between us.
"Well." His voice came out wrong. Too bright. Too sharp. "That's new."
No one moved.
"The Sensorium, right? Plays tricks. Shows things." He was backing away, hands raised like he was warding something off. "It's fine. That wasn't—it doesn't mean—"
"Maxx." Serenya's voice. Soft.
"I said it's fine." The word cracked on the way out. He turned away, shoulders hunched. "Let's just—can we just keep moving? Please?"
He didn't wait for an answer. Just started walking, faster than necessary, like he could outpace what had just happened.
The rest of us exchanged glances. Dreadscale didn’t blink. Eryndor had finally turned around, understanding softening his features.
But before Maxx could get three paces ahead, Dreadscale moved. His hand landed on Maxx's shoulder—heavy, grounding. Maxx froze.
"The vines grew between all of us," Dreadscale said matter-of-factly. "That kind of bond doesn't break because you're afraid it will."
He held Maxx’s gaze, nodded, and let go. Leaving Maxx stunned in his wake.
Serenya sidled up next to him, nudged his shoulder and they continued on together. Walking near enough that their shoulders almost brushed. Near enough that he'd know she was still there.
We stopped in a clearing where the trees opened into a natural ring, their glass-chime leaves casting fractured rainbows across the moss and ferns.
"Rest," Dreadscale announced. "Eat. Sleep. Two more nights until the border."
No one argued.
I found a spot against a fallen log, pulled dried meat and a handful of nuts from my pack. The food was bland—survival rations, nothing more—but my body needed fuel whether my stomach wanted it or not.
The others spread out around the clearing.
Serenya sat cross-legged with the Codex open, though she was eating more than writing.
Maxx had positioned himself close to her—not obviously, but close enough that their elbows occasionally brushed.
Whatever had cracked open during the glamour incident, neither of them was acknowledging it.
But, neither of them was moving apart, either.
Dreadscale stood at the perimeter. He ate the way he did everything else—like a job that needed finishing.
Eryndor hadn't sat down. He was pacing the edge of our six-foot radius, shoulders set, still armored in that cold distance he'd worn since this morning.
I watched him prowl and felt the tether whine between us. It had been hours since we'd properly touched. The drain was starting to show—a heaviness in my limbs, a fog at the edges of my thoughts.
"You need to recharge."
Serenya's voice. I looked up and found her watching us both, that clinical assessment back in her eyes.
"We're fine."
"You're grey. Both of you." She closed the Codex. "I can see the drain from here. Sit. Touch. Recharge. Healer's orders."
Eryndor had stopped pacing. He wasn't looking at me.
"We don't have to—" I started.
"Yes, you do." Serenya's voice sharpened. "The Sensorium is hard enough without you both running on empty because you're too stubborn to hold hands."
I didn't budge.
Neither did he.
Serenya crossed her arms and waited us out.
Finally, Eryndor moved. He walked toward me—stiff, reluctant—and lowered himself onto the log beside me. Then he turned.
Away from me.
"Back to back?" I asked.
"It's efficient." His voice was clipped.
We were doing this. Without looking at each other. Without acknowledging this morning. Without pretending this was anything other than survival.
"Fine."
I turned to mirror him. Settled my spine against his.
The tether sighed.
The relief was immediate—that warm flood of energy cycling back into my limbs, the fog clearing, the heaviness lifting. I let my head fall back, felt it rest against his shoulder blade, and for a moment I just breathed.
Back to back.
Heart to heart.
The tether started vibrating with a deeper resonance than normal—
The flash hit without warning.
Him.
Small hands. A boy's hands. Reaching for someone.
A face—round, freckled, grinning. A friend. The only friend. The one who didn't flinch when the other children whispered "monster" and "cursed."
"Show me," the friend says. "Show me what you can do."
Pride. Eager, desperate pride. Finally, someone who wants to see. Finally, someone who isn't afraid.
The boy reaches out. Touches his friend's hand. Concentrates.
The connection opens.
It's supposed to be a trickle. A gentle brush of souls. That's what the tutors say about the Soul-binding Mark—light touch, gentle, loving.
But the boy Eryndor is young. The boy is untrained. The boy has spent his whole life being told that his power should be restricted, that it’s too dangerous, too powerful—and now someone wants to see it, wants to share it, and the wanting is so big it spills over—
The friend's eyes go wide.
"Wait—" the boy Eryndor says. "I didn't mean—"
But the connection is open and it's hungry and it's pulling and the friend's soul is—
Unraveling.
Like thread from a spool.
The boy Eryndor screams. Tries to let go. Can't.
The friend's hand goes limp.
The friend's eyes go empty.
And the boy Eryndor kneels there in the garden, holding a body that used to be his only friend, and the taste in his mouth is of bile and ruin—
I wrenched back.
The clearing slammed into focus—trees, moss, fractured light.
Eryndor tore away from me and surged to his feet, chest heaving, all the color gone from his face. His hands were shaking.
My mouth was dry. My pulse too fast, still stumbling with the force of what had just come through the bond. The echo of that boy's grief was still ringing through my bones.
The boy's hands. Reaching. Wanting so badly to be seen that the wanting became a flood and the flood became a hunger and the hunger ate his only friend alive.
Eight years old. Kneeling in a garden with empty hands.
There are some tragedies the body knows on sight. Power too big for the body holding it, and someone else paying the price.
I looked at him. At the horror in his eyes. At the way he was holding himself—rigid, controlled, every muscle locked against that terrifying memory.
He thinks I'll break too.
I stood. My legs were unsteady, but I made them hold.
"I'm not him."
Eryndor's head snapped toward me. "What?"
"Your friend." I stepped closer. The tether hummed. "I don't break that easy."
His face paled.
"You don't understand—"
"I understand you'd rather cut vines than risk touching me." Another step. "I understand you think I'm fragile."
"Amaria—"
"I am the Rupture." The words came out harder than I intended. "I've survived the Void. I've survived the Dead Zone. I've survived draining myself dry to keep you breathing." I stepped closer. The tether hummed. "I don't break."
He stared at me. He swallowed like it hurt. For a moment, I thought he might argue—might explain—might tell me what I'd actually seen in that flash.
Instead, he turned away.
"We should keep moving."
He walked away.
Afraid of what he might do to me.
Funny.
I was the one he should be afraid of.