Chapter 20 #4
My stomach knots. I take a step back like the words physically struck me. Valen’s hand drops from my shoulder, and I’m suddenly aware of the coolness where his touch had been—like the last thread holding me steady just slipped away.
“No.” The word hits too fast. “That’s not possible.”
Valen doesn’t argue. He just watches me, quiet, which somehow makes it worse.
“You’re talking about myths,” I snap. “Stories for wide-eyed initiates. Noble-sounding bullshit meant to make legends feel real. Bonds that link fates? It’s not real.”
But even as I say it, the words feel hollow. Because I know what I felt.
The blood. The tearing pain. The way her body went limp in my arms—how I knew it before I even looked down.
My hands are shaking again. I clench them into fists again, hard enough my knuckles pop.
“She’s . . . ” I can’t finish the sentence.
Valen doesn’t let up. “It doesn’t matter if you believe it, Thane. It’s happening. And whatever this is—I believe it’s old. Older than the clans. Older than what we’ve been allowed to remember.”
That last part hits different.
My gaze snaps to him. “What do you mean, allowed?”
He meets my stare, steady as ever. But I can see it now—the caution. The restraint. Like he’s holding back a truth I’m not supposed to hear.
Valen holds my gaze a second longer. Then he says it—soft. Careful.
“History is written by those who survive it. And sometimes . . . rewritten by those who want to control what comes next.”
My blood runs cold.
“Rewritten how?” I demand.
He doesn’t answer right away. Glances toward the doorway—like someone might be listening. Then, almost under his breath: “I have learned that some truths were buried after the Shadow Wars. Some clans had . . . reasons.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“You’re saying the bond—whatever this is—it was erased?”
He doesn’t confirm. Doesn’t have to. The silence is answer enough.
But I shake my head hard, jaw tight.
I jerk a hand toward Amara, still surrounded by healers.
“She’s lying there covered in blood and you want to talk in riddles?
” My voice roughens, sharper than I mean it to be.
“I don’t give a shit about ancient secrets right now.
Unless it’s going to help her wake up. I need her to wake. To breathe.”
Valen nods once, composed as ever.
That calm? It grates.
Makes me want to drive my fist straight through the nearest wall. I clench my jaw so hard it aches, swallowing down the urge to lash out. It wouldn’t help. It wouldn’t change a damn thing.
Valen sighs. “And she will. But you asked what’s happening. I’m telling you.”
I glare at him, but I can’t hold it. The anger collapses. Leaves only fear, raw and pulsing behind my ribs.
I press my hand against the stone wall behind me like it might hold me up. “Just tell me when she’s stable. Please.” The word scrapes my throat on the way out.
His voice drops, low and sure. “You’ll be the first to know.”
Valen steps closer.
“May I?” Valen asks, voice low.
I nod, barely. I know he wants to help.
He steps closer and places a hand on my back—steady, sure. The kind of anchor only he can be. My mentor. My oldest tether to reason.
I’m reminded of how he helped me hold it together after Mother died. How he kept me steady when Father got sick. How he brought me back when I didn’t know who I was without them.
I breathe into the contact, willing myself to stay grounded, to loosen the sharp pull in my chest. That unbearable hook lodged in my heart—tearing, ripping—eases. Just a little.
I feel his magics—Marenai—pulse through me, subtle and practiced. A calming current, like the breath of wind before a storm breaks. It doesn’t steal the panic, doesn’t erase the fear—but it helps me stand.
The tearing becomes a gentle pull. My nerves begin to settle, even as the ache in my chest lingers.
But the fear doesn’t move. It coils tighter.
Because she’s still not awake.
Valen drops his hand but stays close.
I lean back against the wall and let my head fall against the cold stone. The chill bites through my sweat-damp hair, but I don’t move.
The tearing eases—leaving a low, constant throb I can’t shake. Like a hook I can’t remove. A thread I didn’t choose.
Whatever this bond is . . . it runs deep—like something ancient, buried, and waking. And I don’t know what that means.
For her.
For me.
For what lives in my blood.
I’ve kept it buried. Controlled. Contained. Every breath, every step, every ounce of discipline I have—it’s to make sure it stays that way.
Because this bond—this thing that’s tethered us—I don’t understand it. I don’t know where it came from. Or how far it goes.
Or what the cost will be.
She doesn’t know what’s part of my blood. What rots beneath. Something I’ve spent my life trying to suppress, to contain.
But this bond—this connection—what if it rips open what I’ve kept sealed? What if this bond lets it bleed into her?
What if it hurts her?
I squeeze my eyes shut, my fists clenched against my thighs.
Gods. If this hurts her . . .
If I’m the reason she—
I don’t finish the thought. I just breathe. Slowly. Shallowly. The scent of blood still clings to the air.
Valen must sense the shift in me—because a moment later, his hand is on my shoulder again. Grounding. Solid.
I turn my head.
“Thane?” he asks, his voice low, steady. His silver-blue eyes search mine. “What is it?”
I look away. I can’t tell him. Not the real reason. Not the truth clawing under my skin like it’s trying to get out. No one can know. Not even Valen.
What’s in my blood has to stay buried. Locked down. Sealed tight.
I’ll find a way to keep it from touching her.
I have to.
I’ve done it this long. Years of control. Of silence. Of walking the edge and never slipping. I can keep doing it.
For her.
So I give him the other truth. The one I can say aloud.
I exhale slowly. The words scrape their way out, rough and raw.
“Valen . . . I’ve fallen for her.” I pause. The admission drops between us like a stone. “I really tried—” I swallow hard, my voice thinning. “I really tried not to.”
I shrug, but it’s not casual. There’s no ease in the movement—just inevitability, sinking into my bones like lead. Like I’ve been fighting a war I already knew I’d lose.
Valen doesn’t speak right away. He just watches me. And for once, there’s no lecture in his silence. No weighty truth waiting to be handed down.
Then, softly—“It was never going to be that simple, was it?”
I huff a bitter laugh. “Nothing ever is with me.”
His gaze flicks to Amara. Her breathing’s steadier now. Her face a little less pale. But she’s still unconscious. Still too fragile. And I can’t bear it.
Valen’s voice drops. “Love is never weakness, Thane. But pretending you don’t feel it?” He glances back at me. “That will tear you apart.”
I don’t answer. Because it already is.
And I can’t tell him why.
AMARA
Pain.
Not sharp, not searing—but deep. A heavy ache, pulsing through my ribs, curling along my spine, dragging me from the depths of sleep.
Not the kind of pain that warns of injury.
The kind that lingers after healing. I shift slightly, wincing, my body feeling both weightless and leaden at the same time.
The air smells different here. Not the crisp scent of the infirmary, not the damp, smoky air of the outpost halls. Something warmer. Familiar. Woodsmoke. Metal. And beneath it all—something distinctly Thane.
I’m not in the barracks. My eyes flutter open slowly, the edges of the world still blurred, my thoughts sluggish.
A dimly lit space greets me. The flickering glow of a single lantern casts long shadows across the walls, brushing against the dark wooden beams above.
The scent of burning embers lingers faintly in the air.
A private room.
Thane’s room.
I try to push up onto my elbows, but the moment I move, a deep, sharp ache knifes through my ribs. I barely muffle the groan. A chair scrapes against the floor.
And then, he’s there.
Thane steps into view, already watching me. He kneels beside the bed, his hand brushing against my temple as he pushes my hair back. His touch is gentle, careful, like he’s afraid I might break. And then, he takes my hand. Steady. Real. His thumb skims over my knuckles before he squeezes.
He looks wrecked. Like he hasn’t slept. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable, but his eyes betray him. Something dark lurks in them. Something coiled, restrained.
I swallow against the dryness in my throat. “How long?”
Calryx speaks first. “Let’s see . . . the Warlord had one sleepless night, two arguments with the healers, and exactly twelve hours of hovering. So . . . long enough.”
I let out a breath—half a laugh, half a wince. She tries to sound annoyed, but I hear the strain beneath it.
Then, after a beat, her tone shifts—still teasing, but gentler now.
“Don’t scare him like that again, Virelya.” She huffs. “I for one was never concerned.”
“You’ve been out since yesterday afternoon,” he says, his voice low, measured. “The healers gave you a sleeping elixir after the healing.”
I blink, disoriented, trying to piece together everything. Healing magics aren’t gentle. It burns. It tears. It forces the body to relive every pain, every wound, as it repairs itself.
I vaguely remember a healer’s hands pressing against my ribs, the raw white-hot agony of flesh mending itself, muscle pulling back together, bone reforging.
I exhale slowly, letting my head fall back against the pillow.
“It’s over,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
Thane doesn’t respond. His grip on my hand lingers—just for a second. Then, almost reluctantly, he lets go.
I glance at him again. He doesn’t move. His posture is stiff now, arms crossed, his shoulders tight—like he’s holding something in check. Like if he doesn’t, he’ll unravel.
I study him, taking in the taut lines of his shoulders, the muscle ticking in his jaw. Something’s wrong. Not just wrong—off.