59. Chapter 59 #2
He moved without hesitation. His robes were immaculate—untouched by the chaos, unstained by the blood of his subjects. When he raised his hands, the crowd fell silent.
"My people."
His voice carried without effort. Amplified by magic, or simply by the weight of a crown no one dared challenge.
"Tonight, you witnessed something terrible. You saw time break. You saw reality bleed. You saw the consequences of a bond that should never have existed."
He gestured toward us—Eryndor and me, standing at the base of the altar like sacrifices waiting to be offered.
"My son bears a sacred Mark. A gift meant to bind and heal. But through no fault of his own, that gift became entangled with something dangerous."
His eyes found mine. “Chaotic. Dangerous. A threat to the very fabric of our world.”
The Rupture.
"But tonight, we do not despair."
The King's voice shifted. Warmer and more patient now.
"Tonight, we purify."
He stepped aside, revealing the altar fully. The priest. The runes. The ceremonial knife that gleamed in the candlelight.
"Before the Prince can bind his soul to Princess Vivienne and heal the realm, he must be cleansed of his wild, deadly bond. This is not punishment—it is liberation. A holy ritual, performed since the first days of our kingdom, to free souls from bonds that bind them to destruction."
The crowd murmured. Relief flickered across faces. They wanted to believe. They needed to believe.
"The Ceremonial Purification," the King declared, "will sever what should never have been joined. And from the ashes of chaos, order will rise."
He turned to face me fully. "Bring her forward."
Guards took my arms. Not roughly—carefully, almost reverently, like they were escorting a relic instead of a threat. The crowd parted as they led me toward the altar.
This is happening.
This is actually happening.
I climbed the steps. Stood before the priest. The runes beneath my feet hummed with power that made my bones ache.
Eryndor was brought forward next.
Princess Vivienne stood behind him, her face arranged in cool, practiced pity. She didn't look at Eryndor like a future husband. She looked at a broken toy she couldn't wait to fix. I wanted to stab her in the eye.
The priest cleared his throat.
"We stand at the altar of binding," he intoned. "But, we come not to join, but to sever."
The words had the same cadence as wedding vows, the same rhythm—but inverted. Perverted. A mockery of everything sacred.
"Two souls stand before us, bound by Marks that were never meant to merge. Their union has brought chaos to our realm. Their connection has torn the Veil itself."
The priest raised the ceremonial knife.
"By the power vested in this altar, by the ancient rites of our people, we shall cut what binds them. We shall free what was entangled. We shall restore what was broken."
He turned to me.
"Do you consent to this severing?"
Do you consent.
The words echoed in my skull.
What we'd caused tonight. What the King would do if I refused. Not to me. I could survive his dungeons. I'd survived them before.
But Eryndor—
The King would break him. Not quickly, not cleanly, but thoroughly. He would use me as the lever. Threaten me, hurt me, dangle me just out of reach until his son shattered into something compliant. Something controllable.
And Maxx. Serenya. Caden.
Everyone I loved, ground into weapons or warnings.
I couldn't save the bond and save them.
I couldn't have him and keep him whole.
The priest was still waiting.
The court was still watching.
Eryndor's side of the bond didn't flare with panic. It went terrifyingly still. The frantic desperation I expected wasn't there—instead, there was only the cold, bottomless grief of a male standing at the edge of a grave he had already dug.
I turned to face him. His eyes found mine. His jaw was locked, his hands fisted at his sides. He held his ground in perfect, unwavering silence. His eyes locked on mine, and his mask slipped just enough to show the devastation beneath. He gave a single, infinitesimal nod.
Do it.
I reached out, lacing my fingers through his. His grip was iron, crushing my hand like a drowning man, even as his face remained carved from unyielding stone.
"Eyes on me," I whispered his words to him. The cords in his neck went taut, the only crack in his armor. He dipped his chin, his thumb dragging across my knuckles in a ruinous final caress.
"Steady," he murmured.
“And together,” I finished.
I turned back to the priest.
The court held its breath.
The King watched, satisfaction curdling across his features.
I opened my mouth and spoke the words that would end us.
"I yield."
The priest turned to Eryndor.
"And you? Do you consent to this severing?"
A cold, crushing finality flooded the tether—the terrifying, unshakable force of a lethal command being executed.
He looked at me. He met the certainty in my eyes with a desolation so profound it stole the breath from my lungs. The truth hit the bond—heavy, deliberate, and entirely his own:
This is how we protect what matters.
His voice rang out across the marble, hollow, steady, and absolute.
"I do."
The priest raised the knife.
"Then let what was once bound be severed. Let what was once merged be split. Let the souls that were entangled be—"
He brought the rune-laden blade down.
“Liberated.”
It slashed through the tether and the bond snapped. The blade caught in the tether like a fishhook catching a vein. Then it yanked.
The sound that tore out of me was alien. Distant. A scream ricocheting off chandeliers that trembled, then cracked, as Eryndor's scream met mine.
Fae were scrambling and shoving each other to get out of danger's way.
The flare of pain was all-consuming, but the void was worse. The bond snapped, and the sudden absence of him hollowed me out. My body became a graveyard where his soul used to be.
Then my vision went white. The pain obliterated everything—every nerve, every thought, every sense of where my body ended and the agony began. White faded to black. Weightless. Falling.
I heard Eryndor's body hit the marble first.
Then mine.
There were hands dragging me off the altar. A healer brushing herbs under my nose.
"She's breathing. Get her up," she said.
Cold. My mind reached for the warmth in my chest—the hum of Eryndor's presence. It hit a wall. No hum. No pulse. Just a phantom limb aching for what had been cut away.
I looked down at my collarbone. In place of the tether a white scar cut through the skin. Jagged. Permanent. Broken.
Broken. We're broken.
Eryndor made a sound. I turned—my body heavy and sluggish—and saw him being pulled upright by another healer.
His Mark was cracking. Visible fissures spread across his chest, leaking raw energy that sparked and hissed against the air.
His face was ashen. His eyes met mine. Wide. Terrified. He can't feel me either.
Then realization struck him. He was reaching for me and grabbing handfuls of empty air. The volatile heat that had always lived between us—the power that made flowers bloom and reality bend—had vanished.
I reached back. And felt absolutely nothing.
The crowd exhaled. Relief rippled through them like a shudder. They'd watched the dangerous bond be cut away. They'd watched the chaos end. They believed, because they needed to believe, that they were safe now.
The King stepped forward.
"The Purification is complete."
His voice was warm. Triumphant. The voice of a savior, not a tyrant.
"The wild bond has been severed. The threat to our realm has been removed. And now—"
He turned toward the altar, where the priest still stood, where the ceremonial knife still dripped with the residue of the severance.
"—we celebrate a new binding. A proper binding. A union that will heal what has been broken and protect what must be preserved."
Guards moved.
Not toward me—I was already forgotten, already crumpled at the edge of the altar, clutching the scar on my chest like I could hold the pieces of myself together.
Toward the princess in white and gold, waiting with a smile that had never reached her eyes. They parted the crowd for her to walk to the altar.
My legs wouldn't hold me. My voice wouldn't come. The severing had hollowed me out.
All I could do was watch it happen.
Well. At least the guests won't have to change venues.
I hope she slips and falls on the ceremonial knife chokes on her vows and her womb is as barren as her black heart
My vision blurred. The rage couldn't hold me upright anymore. Arms found me. Maxx. His face swam into view—pallid, shocked, but strong.
"I've got you, Flameheart," he murmured. "Come on. Up. Can you stand?"
I couldn't answer. Couldn't feel my legs. The scar on my chest burned cold, and every breath echoed in the emptiness where the bond had been.
He lifted me anyway. Half-carried, half-dragged me down the altar steps while the court's attention shifted to the princess gliding forward in white and gold. No one noticed the Rupture being removed from the stage. No one cared.
Good. Let them forget me. There wasn't much left to remember anyway.
Maxx brought me to a table near the back.
Serenya was already there—standing, reaching for me, her face streaked with tears. The moment I was close enough, she pulled me into her arms.
"I'm sorry." She was shaking. "I'm so sorry. I watched and I couldn't—I wanted to stop it—"
"It's done." The words came out empty. "It's done."
Her grip tightened, pulse hammering against my collarbone. Too fast. Erratic. The rhythm of a mind fighting to stay inside its own walls.
She was holding me. But she was also holding on.
I let her hold me. Let Maxx's hand rest on my shoulder. Let myself be surrounded by the only family I had left while, at the altar, the priest began preparing for another ceremony.
I closed my eyes.
The court was cheering.