Chapter 24
THE BOND
TWENTY-FOUR
Lenuk found some hidden texts, so ancient they were barely held together.
He gave his life to bring them to me. Thank you dear old friend.
May they help bring peace to our realm .
. . All I can make out, so far, is something about a “sacred bond wrought to deliver from ruin . . . ” the rest I need to bring in for restoration.
—VALEN’S JOURNALS
AMARA
The barracks are alive with the usual morning chaos—soldiers clattering plates, the scent of fresh bread and sizzling sausage thick in the air.
I sit at one of the long wooden tables, a cup of mercifully strong tea cradled in my hands, trying to look composed. Like I’m fine. Like I didn’t wake up in Thane’s bed and immediately start spiraling.
Across from me, Lyra stares. Smirking. Of course she knows.
To my left, Fenric is half-asleep, cradling his mug like it might run away. Taila is slicing an apple with a dagger she conveniently forgot to leave at the training session yesterday. Darius and Nessa are debating over patrol routes—but their ears are clearly on us.
I take a slow sip of tea, eyes fixed on the rim of the cup. Maybe if I don’t meet her gaze, she’ll let it go.
She does not. She leans in, resting her elbows on the table, voice far too loud.
“So . . . how’s your head?”
Fenric snorts into his mug. That clearly woke him up.
I scowl. “Like someone split it open with a battle axe. Thanks for asking.”
She hums. “And your heart?”
I choke. Full-on, tea-up-the-nose, eyes-watering cough.
Nessa freezes, apple halfway to her mouth. Taila raises a brow, chewing slowly. Lyra beams like she just won something.
“You’re the worst,” I croak, dragging both hands down my face.
Fenric mutters, “Called it,” into his cup. Darius, very helpfully, says nothing—but absolutely doesn’t blink.
Lyra nudges my foot under the table. “You’re deflecting.”
Of course I’m deflecting.
I’ve spent the last few days pretending the bond isn’t real. That it doesn’t hum between us like a second heartbeat. That it isn’t syncing my thoughts. My feelings.
That it doesn’t pull tighter every time he’s near.
And we were close. Gods, we were right there. He started letting me in. And I—I stepped back. Flinched. Let the fear get in the way.
Now he’s pulling away and I can feel it. Every moment he doesn’t look at me. Every silence stretched too long. I see it in the way his voice tightens when we speak.
I feel it in the fucking bond.
It’s quieter now. Not gone. Just . . . braced.
I sigh and shove a piece of bread into my mouth—safer than speaking.
Lyra tilts her head, resting her cheek on her fist, eyes still fixed on me.
“You’re different today,” she says, watching me like she’s waiting for me to admit it.
The words land too clean, too direct. I freeze mid-chew. My throat tightens around a bite of bread like I just tried to swallow a stone.
She’s right.
For a breath, I don’t say anything. But I could.
I could tell her that I’m not afraid anymore. That I’m done pretending the bond is just magics. That I’m choosing this; I’m choosing him.
But before I can get the words out, a shadow falls across the table. And just like that, the air shifts. Because he’s here.
Thane.
Plate in hand, expression guarded, that calm, unreadable look he wears when he’s playing Warlord.
Except I can see it now. The way his shoulders are just a little less tense. The almost-softness in his eyes when they land on mine. The slight catch in his breath when he sees me.
The air between us pulls tight. No one at the table speaks.
Fenric glances between us and takes a slow sip of tea like he’s trying to vanish behind the cup. Darius’s brow arches. Subtle. Not subtle enough. Nessa clears her throat. Taila kicks Lyra under the table.
Lyra doesn’t flinch. Just sips her drink and murmurs, “Timing’s a bitch.”
“Morning.” His voice is calm. Steady. Too steady.
Like he didn’t hold me in his arms last night. The bond thrums like the wings of a hummingbird under my skin.
I inhale. Keep my voice even. “Morning.”
Lyra is having way too much fun. She flicks her gaze between the two of us, eyes glinting with mischief.
“Oh, this is fun,” she muses. “You’re both acting so normal.”
I shoot her a glare.
Thane, of course, doesn’t flinch. He just sets his plate down—across from me. Where he never sits. Picks up his fork like this is nothing.
Like I’m not watching his every move.
But I am.
I feel steadier. Gods help me—because he’s here.
Is that because of the bond?
I exhale slowly. “Thank you.”
He pauses mid-bite. Looks up at me.
“For what?”
For catching me.
For staying.
For being the one constant when everything else keeps shifting beneath my feet.
“For the hangover remedy,” I say instead, glancing down at my cup.
He studies me for a second longer, like he can see every word I didn’t say. But he only nods.
“Of course.”
The moment passes. But something settles between us. He looks down at his plate, but the bond gives him away—one faint, steady pull, like an echo of last night.
Across the table, Lyra leans back like she’s watching a play.
“So,” Lyra says, her eyes flicking between us, “do we train first, or are we still pretending nothing happened?”
Thane smiles, but doesn’t lift his head.
I sigh with exasperation towards my friend. “Training—like always, Ly.”
I don’t give her the satisfaction of answering her second question.
She groans. “Obviously. But what kind of training, exactly?”
“Formations. Drills. Endurance,” Thane says without looking up.
Lyra glares. “You two are my least favorite people.”
But she’s smiling. Taila chuckles. Fenric mimes stabbing himself with a fork. Darius mutters something about running away while we still can.
I grin.
And this time, it doesn’t feel forced.
Maybe I don’t have to carry all of this alone. And maybe—just maybe—I don’t want to.
By midday, I’m soaked in sweat, my breathing ragged—but I feel good. Grounded. Sharp. Focused. For the first time in days, my head is clear and I feel like myself again.
And then, Thane walks onto the field.
Shit.
Just seeing him—shoulders squared, that quiet storm in his eyes—and all that clarity starts to slip.
The moment he enters the training field, the energy shifts—not just for me. For everyone.
The soldiers straighten. Conversations fade. Thane commands attention, without a word, eyes sharp and assessing.
His leathers are dusted from the road, the faint scent of dragonfire clinging to him. He must have gone flying after breakfast. Xaroth isn’t far, resting beyond the ridge, his massive form blending into the mountainside.
I exhale slowly. Roll my shoulders. Steady myself. He will not unravel me today.
But then he looks at me.
And he is smirking.
Fucking fantastic.
The training grounds stretch out below the mountains, the scent of fire magics and sweat hanging thick in the afternoon heat. The outdoor sparring circles are full. The warriors here are hardened, focused. They do not waste time on distractions.
But today?
Today, they’re watching. Because Thane is back.
And he’s looking at me like nothing’s changed. Like I didn’t feel the ache of every second he was gone.
“You and me,” he says.
Heat coils low in my stomach.
The bond pulses—soft, steady, impossible to ignore. I press my fingers to my sternum, like I can quiet the thrumming.
We still haven’t talked. Not about the bond. Not about the space between us. Not about the way he left after I finally stopped running.
We’re not talking now either. So I make it about sparring.
I arch a brow, keeping my stance loose. Unaffected.
“Weapons?”
“None.”
“Magics?”
“Nope.”
“You just missed me?” I ask, voice light, teasing.
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t take the bait.
“Just you and me, Amara,” he says.
Something in my chest tightens. It’s not fear of the sparring match we are about to have. It’s fear of what’s still unsaid and what this moment is really about.
I narrow my eyes, trying to focus—but then I see the way his duster shifts around his legs when he moves. The memory of his body pressing into mine—strong, steady, urgent—his hands gripping my waist, his breath warm against my skin, the way he felt against me in his bed.
A few weeks ago. A lifetime ago.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Here we go.
Thane reaches up, undoing the clasps of his duster. The leather shifts fluidly as he slides it from his shoulders, worn and supple from use and travel. And underneath—his warrior leathers cling like a second skin. Every sharp angle. Every inch of muscle honed for war.
I look. I wish I didn’t. But I do.
Around us, the training grounds pause. Not fully, but just enough. I can feel their eyes on us.
Lyra stills. Fenric forgets to dodge a hit.
Because this is different. Thane isn’t looking at me like an opponent. He’s looking at me like he knows how I fall apart. And exactly where to press.
He doesn’t come at me right away. He closes the distance one step at a time, gaze locked like he’s measuring not just my stance, but how close I am to breaking. When he finally moves—it’s not an opening strike. It’s a demand.
I twist, counter, drive toward his ribs—he catches my wrist. Spins me. My boot digs in just before he has the advantage.
We move like flame and wind—always crashing, never settling. Too close. Too fast.
His breath brushes my cheek. The bond hums at the base of my spine. Muscle against muscle. Heat against heat. Every move is a memory that has nothing to do with this sparring match.
The last time we touched.
The last time we kissed.
The last time I stopped pretending.
And now?
Now we fight.
Hits land. Sweat slicks. Breath shortens.
He’s stronger, but I’m faster.
The field has gone still, every eye is on us. But I only feel him; his power, his restraint, his control cracking at the edges. The air between us is charged, humming with something more than combat and skill.
The push. The pull. The heat.
Every strike says what we haven’t:
Mine — You left.
His — I had to.