Chapter 11 #2
Casteel complied without hesitation, filling a basin from the spring well and lighting additional lanterns he found in a dusty storage niche. Nero's face had taken on a gray pallor, his breathing shallow and wet.
"The arrow must come out now," Makim said grimly, cutting away the blood-soaked fabric around the wound. "Hold him steady—even unconscious, his body will fight the pain."
Casteel positioned himself at Nero's head, hands gripping his shoulders with gentle firmness. Through their bond, he projected all the strength and comfort he could muster, though fear threatened to choke him.
Makim worked with methodical precision, first administering a tincture to slow the bleeding, then carefully exploring the wound's edges. "The shaft is lodged against a rib, which may have prevented it from penetrating the lung fully. If we're fortunate, extraction will be clean."
The healer's weathered hands gripped the arrow shaft, his eyes meeting Casteel's in silent communication. Then, with a single, fluid motion, he withdrew the missile from Nero's flesh.
Blood welled immediately, bright crimson against pale skin. Makim pressed clean cloths against the wound, his movements swift and sure as he applied poultices and bandages. Casteel felt Nero's pain spike dramatically, then recede as the healer administered more of his tinctures.
"Now we wait," Makim said finally, washing blood from his hands in the basin. "I've done what I can. The rest depends on his strength and the gods' mercy."
"Will he survive?" Casteel's voice cracked on the question, his hands still clutching Nero's as if he could physically anchor his mate to this world.
Makim's weathered face revealed nothing as he checked Nero's pulse once more.
"The wounds themselves are grave but not necessarily fatal.
It's the blood loss that concerns me most." He met Casteel's desperate gaze with unflinching honesty.
"The passage until darkness will tell. If fever doesn't set in by nightfall, his chances improve significantly. You know—"
But Makim didn't finish even though Casteel could guess. Nero's death would cause his.
Casteel knew right at that moment he didn't care. Somehow this stubborn soldier had weaved his way into his heart. It didn't even matter if Nero didn't feel the same. No, he knew Nero didn't feel the same. But as long as Nero lived, nothing else mattered.
Casteel nodded, unable to form words past the knot in his throat. Through their bond, he could still feel Nero's presence—weak, distant, but stubbornly persistent. Like a flame refusing to be extinguished.
"I must prepare more medicines," Makim said, gathering his bloodied instruments. "Keep him warm and try to get water past his lips if he wakes. Even a few drops will help." He hesitated. "And be close. Skin to skin."
Once alone with Nero, Casteel removed his bloodied shirt and carefully stretched out beside him on the wide stone altar, mindful of the fresh bandages. He pressed his forehead against Nero's temple, one hand splayed protectively across his mate's chest to feel each precious breath.
"Don't you dare leave me," he whispered fiercely. "Not now. Not after everything."
The sound of approaching footsteps jerked Casteel from his vigil. Multiple sets, moving with military precision down the stone stairs. He rose fluidly, positioning himself between Nero and the entrance, something primal and dangerous rising within him.
When the tall figure stepped into the chamber's dim light, Casteel's world narrowed to a single point of rage. Eryken. The rebellion's commander. The man whose archers had shot Nero.
"You," Casteel snarled, and felt the wolf surge within him, claws and fangs emerging before conscious thought could form.
Eryken halted immediately, raising one hand in a placating gesture while the other rested near his sword hilt. Behind him, Lucan and two other rebels tensed, hands moving to their weapons.
"I come to speak, not fight," Eryken said, his voice deep and steady despite facing a half-transformed shifter. His eyes moved past Casteel to the still form on the altar. "How is he?"
"As if you care," Casteel spat, feeling his canines lengthen as the transformation progressed. "Your archers did this."
"My archers," Eryken agreed, his expression grave, "who were ordered to eliminate the prophesied savior before Doran could use him to consolidate power." He took a careful step forward. "We knew Nero had been captured. No one mentioned a real bonding."
"So, you just decided to murder me without knowing the full situation?" Casteel's voice distorted as his vocal cords shifted, becoming more wolf than human.
"We had reports that Doran was planning to use you as a figurehead for a theocratic takeover," Eryken replied, his voice level despite facing Casteel's partial transformation. "That thousands would die in forced labor camps while the priests seized control of every aspect of Abergennian life."
"So, you chose to kill me instead," Casteel growled, the wolf in him straining for release, demanding blood for Nero's wounds.
"We chose to prevent a tyrant from using you as a weapon against your own people," Eryken corrected, his eyes never leaving Casteel's. "Had we known about the bond—had we known Nero was truly involved—other options would have been considered."
Lucan stepped forward, his weathered face solemn. "Commander, perhaps we should—"
"Stay back," Casteel snarled, his transformation advancing further as protective rage surged through him. "All of you." He stared at Lucan. "You knew. You saw."
Lucan stared at Casteel and for the second time he saw something like regret. "I fought side by side with Nero for three years. I thought he was playing. He vowed he would never love—"
Lucan clamped his lips closed but Casteel could easily finish the sentence.
He vowed he would never love another. After the death of Nero's wife and family.
And suddenly Casteel was so sick of everything.
He didn't doubt Nero cared for him, but he doubted the reasons.
It wasn't simple and yet so complicated human emotions unless you counted protectiveness mixed with a healthy dose of guilt.
No, this was simple biology. The bond compelling him. A chill snaked down his spine.
Through their bond, he felt Nero's consciousness stir weakly, responding to his distress. The connection between them pulsed with shared emotion—Nero's presence in his mind a faint but steady beacon despite his unconscious state.
Eryken studied him with the calculating gaze of a seasoned tactician. "You're bonded to him. Truly bonded, not just the theatrical display Doran arranged."
"Yes," Casteel bit out, the single word carrying the weight of everything that had developed between them.
"Then I've made a grave error," Eryken admitted, surprising Casteel with his directness. "One I deeply regret." He gestured toward Nero's still form. "He was one of my most trusted lieutenants and still is a great friend."
The sincerity in his voice gave Casteel pause, the wolf's rage ebbing slightly. "Your regret doesn't heal his wounds."
"No," Eryken agreed. "But perhaps my resources can help ensure his survival." He nodded to one of his men, who produced a small leather pouch. "We have medicines and skilled healers among our ranks. Better equipment than what Makim could carry in his satchel."
Casteel hesitated, torn between distrust and desperate need. Nero's life hung by a thread—could he afford to reject assistance from the man whose orders had caused this?
Before he could decide, Makim returned, arms laden with fresh supplies. The healer assessed the situation with a single glance, then addressed Eryken directly.
"Your archers use poisoned tips?" he asked, his tone clinical rather than accusatory.
Eryken shook his head. "Not today. Standard broadheads. No poison."
Makim nodded, some tension leaving his shoulders. "Good. That simplifies treatment." He moved past Casteel to check Nero's bandages. "His pulse is stronger than I expected. The bond is helping to stabilize him."
"The bond?" Eryken asked.
"The bonding magic," Makim explained, adjusting the bandages with practiced efficiency.
"It links their life forces. As long as one remains strong, both are sustained.
" His weathered eyes found Casteel's, but Casteel shook his head.
He didn't trust Eryken with the knowledge he was life dependent on Nero"
Makim checked Nero's pulse again. "The bond is keeping him alive, but it's also drawing on Casteel's strength. If this continues much longer they will both be sick." Sick didn't cover it, but the implication hung heavy in the chamber's stale air.
Casteel swayed on his feet, suddenly aware of the exhaustion creeping through his limbs. He could feel himself pouring energy into Nero's failing body, sustaining his mate at the cost of his own.
"How long?" Eryken asked quietly.
"Six bells, perhaps a full day if we're fortunate," Makim replied. "Unless we can break the cycle somehow."
"Break it how?" Casteel demanded, though speaking required more effort than it should have. "I won't abandon him."
"Not abandon," Makim corrected. "Balance. The bond needs to flow both ways, not just drain from you to him." He turned to Eryken. "Those medicines you mentioned—do you have strengthening tonics? Something to boost his natural healing?"
Eryken nodded to his men, who immediately began unpacking supplies. "Whatever you need."
They all turned at the sound of thundering footsteps.
Lucan burst back into the chamber, his face grim with urgency. "Commander," he gasped, "Doran's forces have surrounded the temple. We have minutes before they breach the outer walls."
"How many?" Eryken demanded, instantly alert.
"At least fifty," Lucan replied, already checking his weapons. "Palace guards and those silver-armored zealots Doran's been training. They've got the main entrance blocked and scouts are searching the perimeter."
Casteel felt panic rise in his throat. Nero lay deathly pale on the altar, his breathing shallow, utterly vulnerable to capture or worse. Through their bond, he sensed his mate's life force flickering dangerously.
"We can't move him again," Makim warned, already preparing more medicines with swift, practiced motions. "The bleeding has barely stopped."
Eryken's face hardened into the mask of a battlefield commander. "Lucan, take men and create a diversion at the western wall. Make it loud, make it convincing." He turned to his remaining fighters. "The rest form a defensive line at the stairs. No one reaches this chamber."
"And what about us?" Casteel demanded, one hand still clutching Nero's. "If they break through—"
"They won't," Eryken stated with cold certainty. "My men will hold."
But even as he spoke, the distant sounds of fighting echoed down the stairwell—steel on steel, shouts of pain, orders barked in urgent voices. Doran's forces had already breached the outer defenses.
Casteel felt something shift inside him—the wolf stirring, but different now. Not just rage and protective instinct, but something deeper. The silver wolf of prophecy, responding to the threat with ancient power.
"I need a weapon," he said, his voice steadier than he felt.
Eryken studied him for a moment, then unsheathed a secondary blade from his belt—a short sword of excellent craftsmanship. "You know how to use this?"
"No," Casteel admitted, taking the weapon anyway. "But I'm a fast learner." The thought of plunging a blade into living flesh made him feel sick, but Nero would protect him with his life. Had just attempted that. Carrying a blade was the least he could do.
The sounds of combat grew louder, closer. Makim worked frantically over Nero, administering potions and changing blood-soaked bandages. Eryken positioned himself at the chamber entrance, sword drawn, face set in grim lines.
"Casteel," Makim called urgently. "I need your help. The bond—it's faltering."
Casteel rushed back to Nero's side, cold fear washing through him at the sight of his mate's ashen face. Through their connection, he felt Nero's life force ebbing like a tide retreating from shore.
"What do I do?" he asked desperately.
"Bite him like he did you," Makim instructed, his voice clinical despite the chaos around them. "It needs a double bond."
Understanding dawned immediately. Casteel bent over Nero, his lips finding his mate's throat.
The connection between them pulsed weakly as he pressed his mouth to the beautiful skin.
Casteel hesitated only for a heartbeat before his teeth broke the skin and the taste of copper flooded his mouth as Nero's blood touched his tongue, something electric surging through their connection.
The bond flared to life with renewed strength, pulsing between them like a living thing.
Nero's body arched beneath him, a ragged gasp escaping his lips as consciousness returned in a violent rush. His eyes flew open, clouded with pain but aware, seeking Casteel's face with desperate intensity.
"You're alive," Casteel breathed, relief making him dizzy. Through their bond, he could feel Nero's life force stabilizing, still weak but no longer fading.
"Hard...to kill," Nero managed, his voice barely audible beneath the growing sounds of combat. His eyes focused past Casteel, widening as he recognized the rebellion commander. "Eryken?"
"Save your strength," Eryken replied, attention divided between the wounded man and the approaching battle. "We'll have time for explanations later."
A thunderous crash from above sent dust showering down from the ancient ceiling. The clash of weapons drew nearer, accompanied by shouts and the unmistakable sound of bodies falling on stone steps.
"They've breached the upper level," a rebel called, appearing at the chamber entrance with blood streaming from a gash across his forehead. "Our men are holding the stairs, but they won't last long."
"Go," Eryken ordered, gesturing to Makim. "Take them through. My men and I will cover your retreat."
"You'll die," Casteel protested, even as he helped Makim prepare Nero for movement.
Eryken's smile was grim. "Not if we can help it. This is what the rebellion trained for." He clasped Casteel's shoulder briefly. "Go. Get him to safety. Abergenny needs you both alive."