Chapter 7 #2
Makim studied him, something like respect flickering in his aged eyes. "I'll convey your request. But prepare yourself—Doran will demand complete submission."
"Last question. Does Doran know it won't kill me?"
Makim shook his head. "I don't think so.
His studies focused on the silver wolf only and his omega nature.
Submission in particular. He has been trying to bring forward the silver wolf in many candidates since the rebellion ended.
I believe he knows exactly how long Casteel has, and I don't trust what else he may have discovered. "
After the healer departed, Nero sank onto the narrow cot, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. Through their tenuous bond, he reached for Casteel, trying to project strength, reassurance. The effort left him gasping, doubled over as fresh waves of pain crashed through him.
But he knew it wasn't his pain, it was Casteel's.
Time stretched, marked only by the progression of agony, but inside himself Nero knew his own body wasn't deteriorating further. He would survive this.
Casteel wouldn't.
When the cell door finally opened again what seemed like a dawn later, Nero raised his head with effort. High Priest Doran entered, flanked by two guards, his ornate robes pristine against the dungeon's filth.
"The rebel wishes to speak with me," Doran observed, his tone mild as if discussing the weather. "How extraordinary."
Nero forced himself to stand. "This punishment serves no purpose."
"On the contrary." Doran clasped his hands before him. "It serves to demonstrate the consequences of defiance. The silver wolf and his mate cannot simply abandon their divine calling."
"We weren't abandoning anything," Nero growled. "We were seeking freedom from manipulation."
Doran's smile never reached his eyes. "A semantic distinction at best. The prophecy requires your presence, your obedience, your acceptance of the roles the gods have chosen."
Nero swallowed his retort, knowing antagonism would only strengthen Doran's resolve. "The boy is suffering."
"As are you," Doran noted clinically. "The bond-sickness progresses as expected. Makim believes permanent damage will begin within a day, but the rate the boy is suffering I doubt he will live to see morning."
"Then end this," Nero said, hating the plea in his voice. "If you lose the silver wolf, you lose the people."
Doran paced the small cell, studying Nero as one might examine an interesting specimen. "But you've demonstrated you cannot be trusted. The moment you're reunited, you'll attempt escape again." It was blackmail. Nero didn't doubt Doran had waited before allowing Makim to tend them both.
"We won't," Nero promised, though the lie tasted bitter. "We've learned our lesson.”
"Have you?" Doran's eyes glittered with cold amusement. "Forgive me if I find your word less than compelling."
Nero gritted his teeth, feeling Casteel's pain pulse through their weakening bond like a second heartbeat. "That was before—"
"Before you were bound by magic you don't understand to a boy whose only value to you is survival?
" Doran stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"I know what you are, Nero of the rebellion.
A killer. A man who has lost everything and cares for nothing.
The bond may compel your body, but it cannot change your nature. "
The words hit like physical blows, each one calculated to wound.
Nero fought to keep his expression neutral even as rage and despair warred within him.
Through the bond, he felt Casteel's distress spike—could the young man sense this conversation somehow?
And none of this made sense. If Casteel died, Doran would lose his grip on the people.
But he knew he didn't have time to wait it out.
And he knew Doran was betting on that. No, Doran knew that as a certainty.
"You're wrong," Nero said quietly.
"Am I?" Doran circled him slowly, a predator savoring the hunt. "Then prove it. Kneel."
Nero's spine stiffened. "What?"
"Kneel before me. Acknowledge your place in the divine order. Swear on your bond-mate's life that you will serve the prophecy without question." Doran's smile was razor-sharp. "Do this, and I will reunite you immediately."
The cell fell silent except for Nero's labored breathing. He could feel his strength ebbing with each heartbeat, the bond-sickness eating away at his reserves. But more than that, he could feel Casteel—growing weaker, more desperate with each passing moment. If it was just him, he would gladly die.
But it wasn't.
"I..." Nero began, his knees trembling with more than just physical weakness.
"Yes?" Doran prompted, triumph already gleaming in his eyes.
Nero closed his eyes, reaching through the bond one more time. What he found there made his decision for him—not just Casteel's pain, but his trust. Even now, dying by degrees in that chamber above, the young man still believed in him.
Slowly, Nero sank to one knee.
"I swear," he said, the words scraping his throat raw, "by the bond that ties me to Casteel, that I will serve the prophecy."
Doran's smile widened. "And?"
"Without question," Nero finished, each word a nail in his own coffin.
"Excellent." Doran gestured to the guards. "Take him to his mate. They have a coronation to prepare for."
The guards hauled Nero to his feet, his legs barely supporting him as they dragged him from the cell.
Each step sent fresh waves of agony through his chest, the bond pulling him toward Casteel like a physical force.
The corridors blurred around him, stone walls and flickering torches melding into a single smear of light and shadow.
"Faster," he rasped to the guards. "He's dying."
The taller guard glanced at him, something like sympathy crossing his weathered face. "Steady now. We're nearly there."
They climbed endless stairs, each landing bringing them closer. The bond hummed stronger, responding to the diminishing distance, but the relief was minimal compared to the damage already done. Nero's heart hammered against his ribs, a desperate rhythm that echoed the panic flooding through him.
Finally, they reached the ornate doors of the bonding chamber. Even before they opened, Nero could feel Casteel's presence—weak, faltering, but alive.
"Open it," he demanded, straining against the guards' grip.
The doors swung inward to reveal Makim kneeling beside Casteel's motionless form on the bed. The healer's face was drawn with concern, his hands pressing a damp cloth to the young man's forehead. At the sound of their entrance, he looked up, relief washing over his features.
"Quickly," Makim urged. "His fever has spiked dangerously."
The guards released Nero, who stumbled forward, collapsing to his knees beside Casteel. The young man's skin burned beneath his touch, eyes closed, breathing shallow and rapid. His face had taken on an alarming pallor beneath the fever's flush.
"Leave us," Nero ordered without looking up.
"The High Priest instructed—" one guard began.
"Out!" Makim snapped with surprising authority. "Unless you wish to explain to Doran why his precious savior died under your watch."
The guards hesitated, then retreated, closing the doors behind them. Nero gathered Casteel into his arms, pressing their foreheads together, willing his strength into the younger man's failing body.
"Casteel," he whispered, voice breaking. "Come back to me."
For several heartbeats, there was no response. Then Casteel's eyelids fluttered, revealing glazed blue eyes that struggled to focus.
"Nero?" The word was barely audible, a breath of sound.
"I'm here." Nero cradled him closer, feeling their bond flare to life at the contact—weak but present, a fragile thread strengthening with each passing moment. "I'm here now."
Makim moved swiftly, preparing more of his medicinal draught. "Strip and get on the bed with him. The bond needs skin contact to heal properly, and remove his clothes as well," the healer instructed. "The mark on his throat needs to be exposed."
Nero's fingers trembled as he carefully peeled away the sweat-soaked fabric. Casteel's chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid bursts, each breath a battle. The bite mark on his throat—the physical manifestation of their bond—had turned an angry red, the edges inflamed and weeping.
"What's happening to him?" Nero demanded, his own voice sounding foreign to his ears.
Makim's weathered face was grim. "Bond-sickness. When a new bond is forcibly stretched, it causes a kind of...tearing in the spirit. His body is fighting to maintain the connection despite the distance."
"But I'm here now," Nero said, desperation creeping into his voice. "Why isn't he improving?"
"The bond was damaged." Makim pressed a cool cloth to Casteel's forehead. "Like a wound, it must heal. It requires time and..." He hesitated.
"And what?" Nero pressed.
"Completion," Makim said quietly. "The bond was new, barely formed when you were separated. It needs to be reinforced."
Understanding dawned on Nero's face. "You mean we need to..."
"Yes." Makim gathered his supplies, moving toward the door. "I've given him something for the fever, but only you can truly heal him now." The old healer paused, his hand on the latch. "And Nero? Whatever promises you made to Doran...remember that oaths extracted under duress hold no power."
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Nero alone with Casteel's feverish form. Outside, he could hear guards taking position—no longer keeping them apart, but ensuring they remained where the priests wanted them.
Nero stripped off his own sweat-soaked shirt and slid onto the bed beside Casteel, gathering the younger man against his chest, alarmed at how light he felt.
The contact sent a jolt through their bond—pain mingled with relief, like cold water on burned skin. Casteel stirred, a soft moan escaping his lips.