Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The guards moved in swiftly, professional and efficient. Casteel felt his own small blade taken from his belt, their measly supplies confiscated with methodical thoroughness.
"Separate them," Doran commanded, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Different wings. Let them contemplate the consequences of defying divine will."
"High Priest," Captain Aldric spoke carefully, "the bonding is fresh. Separation could—"
"Teach them proper reverence," Doran finished coldly. "They chose to flee rather than embrace their sacred duty. Now they'll learn what happens when one rejects the gods' gifts."
Casteel felt the blood drain from his face. Even without understanding the full implications, something deep in his chest clenched with dread. "Please," he began, but Doran silenced him with a raised hand.
"You had your chance for compliance. Guards—the stable boy returns to the tower chamber. The rebel goes to the dungeons."
"The dungeons?" Nero's voice cracked like a whip. "I'm supposed to be his mate, not a prisoner."
Doran's smile was sharp as winter frost. "Mates who cannot be trusted together must earn that privilege through obedience. Perhaps a few days apart will remind you both of your proper places."
The guards moved to separate them, and Casteel lunged forward instinctively. "No—wait—" His hand barely brushed Nero's before rough hands pulled them apart. The moment contact broke, pain lanced through Casteel's chest like a physical wound.
Nero stumbled, his face going pale as the same agony struck him. "What—"
"The price of a fresh bond," Doran observed with clinical interest. "The connection demands proximity. Deny it, and both parties suffer."
"How long?" Casteel gasped.
"Until you learn obedience," Doran replied. "Or until the bond breaks entirely. Which would, of course, kill you both."
But surely that was the last thing Doran wanted? He was bluffing. He had to be.
The guards dragged them in opposite directions. Casteel craned his neck for one last glimpse of Nero's face, memorizing the fierce determination in those dark eyes even as pain clouded them. Then the courtyard disappeared behind stone walls, and only the throbbing ache of separation remained.
They returned Casteel to the bonding chamber, but it felt different now—less like a gilded prison, more like a tomb.
The silk-draped bed where he and Nero had joined seemed to mock him with its empty luxury.
Every breath sent fresh waves of pain through his chest, as if invisible hands were slowly crushing his ribs.
He collapsed onto the cold marble floor, unable to make it to the bed, his body trembling as the bond stretched thin across the distance.
Time became meaningless. He couldn't mark the passage of time—Casteel couldn't tell. The pain worsened steadily, a constant throb that made thinking difficult. He found himself curled on his side, arms wrapped around his chest as if he could physically hold the pieces of himself together.
When the door opened, he barely registered the sound. Footsteps approached, measured and careful.
"By the gods," Makim spoke, his voice thick with dismay. "What have they done?"
Casteel managed to lift his head slightly. The healer knelt beside him, weathered hands immediately moving to check his pulse, his breathing, the fever that was already beginning to build, then helped him to the bed.
"How long has it been?" Makim asked gently.
"Don't...don't know," Casteel whispered. "The pain..."
Makim's face darkened with anger. "Fools. Complete fools." He helped Casteel sit up against the wall, though even that small movement sent fresh agony through his body. "The bond is too fresh for separation. Your bodies are rejecting the distance."
"Nero?" Casteel managed.
"Suffering as you are I imagine, though it's worse for the wolf." Makim pulled a small vial from his robes. "This will ease the worst of it, but it's temporary. You need to be together."
Casteel drank the bitter liquid gratefully, feeling some of the crushing weight lift from his chest. "Doran won't allow it."
"Doran is a greedy politician masquerading as a priest," Makim spat. "He cares more for control than for the sacred bonds he claims to serve." The healer sat back on his heels, studying Casteel's face. "Tell me truthfully—was the bonding willing? Both of you?"
Casteel nodded without hesitation. "Yes. We chose it." Or it was for him. He still worried Nero felt compelled. No, he knew he did.
"Then this separation is not just cruel, it's blasphemous." Makim stood, his expression resolute. "I'm going to speak with him."
"He won't listen—"
"He'll listen to me," Makim said grimly. "I've been serving these sacred bonds since before he was born. And I know things about the old magic that he's conveniently forgotten."
The healer left, and Casteel was alone again with the pain. But Makim's medicine had given him enough relief to think more clearly. Through the thin thread of their bond, he could sense Nero—distant, muffled, but alive. The connection pulsed weakly, like a dying heartbeat.
In the dungeons below, Nero paced his small cell like a caged wolf.
He knew Doran had issued an empty threat.
If they died, there was no silver wolf to manipulate, but Casteel felt the effects of the bond more sharply than he and he was already hurting.
The stone walls seemed to press closer with each bell, and the bond's absence felt like a missing limb.
He fought against the pain with all the discipline he'd honed during the rebellion, but it was unlike any injury he'd ever sustained.
This wasn't just physical agony—it was emptiness, a void where something vital had been ripped away.
The guards had watched him warily at first, expecting violence. But as time passed and the separation sickness worsened, their expressions shifted to uncomfortable concern. One even offered water, which Nero accepted with grim silence.
His body burned with fever, yet he felt cold to his core. Sweat soaked through his rough-spun shirt, and his hands trembled no matter how tightly he clenched them. He'd survived torture during the rebellion without breaking, but this...this was different. This was being ripped apart from within.
Through the fragile thread that still connected them, he could feel Casteel's suffering—a distant echo that somehow hurt worse than his own pain. The boy was enduring this because of him, because he'd failed to get them out.
When the cell door creaked open, Nero tensed, expecting Doran's smug face. Instead, Makim entered, his expression thunderous.
"Stubborn fool," the healer muttered, though whether he meant Nero or Doran wasn't clear. He set down his medicine bag and approached cautiously. "Let me see you."
Nero backed away. "Where is Casteel?"
"Suffering, but much worse." Makim's direct answer cut through Nero's defenses. "The separation is killing you both, but he's deteriorating faster."
Fear clutched at Nero's throat. "Why faster?"
"He's younger, and his omega status and his wolf make the bond more essential to his being." Makim reached for Nero's wrist, checking his pulse with practiced efficiency.
"Omega status?"
"It's a wolf shifter designation that Doran has taken full advantage of. Casteel hates to fight, but he feels defeat and guilt exponentially more. He needs someone to genuinely care for him."
Nero didn't reply, but it felt like a slap. "And I'm suffering the same?"
"Your heart races, your skin burns."
"Then take me to him," Nero demanded.
"Doran has forbidden it, and the guards would stop me." Makim's mouth tightened with barely contained rage. "He believes this punishment will break your will."
Nero laughed, a harsh sound that ended in a cough. "He clearly doesn't know much about rebellion."
"No, but he knows the ancient magic better than he lets on." Makim prepared a draught similar to what he'd given Casteel. "He's counting on you to surrender before permanent damage occurs."
Nero accepted the medicine, swallowing the bitter liquid without complaint. "But I've seen shifter mates. One died—plenty died in the war—and yes, they were grieving as anyone who lost a wife or a husband, but the other mate didn't die."
Makim's weathered face grew solemn. "And one of them wasn't the silver wolf," Makim said.
The medicine dulled the worst edges of the pain, allowing Nero to think more clearly. "We both die? There must be another way."
Makim hesitated and Nero pounced. "What?"
"I've studied bond sickness for years. I hate to give you information you could use—"
"Use?" But fuck it, that was the point. They needed all the weapons they could get.
"Against Casteel."
Which shut Nero up, and Makim eyed him as if he was trying to come to a decision. Nero let him look. He had nothing to hide.
"Because you're not the wolf, and even less an omega wolf, I doubt the bond-sickness would kill you."
Nero opened his mouth to say something, but he closed it. He tried a second time. "Are you certain?"
"Unfortunately," he said. "I've petitioned the Council of Priests. Some are uncomfortable with Doran's methods, especially regarding sacred bonds. But the process takes time Casteel doesn't have."
Nero raked his fingers through his sweat-damp hair. "How long does he have?"
"At this rate?" Makim's clinical assessment held no comfort. "Casteel has perhaps until tomorrow's dawn before permanent damage begins. But that may be very optimistic."
The healer's words struck Nero like a physical blow. His own suffering he could endure—had endured worse during the rebellion—but the thought of Casteel slowly dying in that gilded chamber above turned his stomach to ice.
"Bring Doran to me," Nero said, the words ash in his mouth.
Makim's eyebrows rose. "You would beg?"
"If necessary." The admission cost him, but Nero forced it past his pride. "I didn't fight in the rebellion to kill an innocent because of a priest's ego."