Chapter 3 Amelia
AMELIA
Velcryn rises out of the northern mists like something half-remembered from a nightmare.
Its blackstone towers are jagged and tall, crowned with violet fire that pulses in eerie rhythm, as though the city breathes.
Or hungers. Cold air knifes through my cloak as I guide my horse down the narrow winding path that cuts through the pine-choked cliffs.
The last few hours of travel have been cloaked in silence, save for the soft crunch of hooves on frost-bitten earth and the occasional caw of the carrion birds that circle overhead like sentries.
The sigil under my collarbone burns hotter the closer I get. Not painful. Just aware and alert. As if it, too, knows we are crossing into enemy territory.
A pair of Vrakken guards wait at the iron gates, eyes like polished obsidian, armor glinting with rune-etched silver. One raises a hand in silent command. I stop my horse, lowering my hood slowly.
"Amelia Crow, of the Nytherian coven," I say, voice even.
The guard nods. A flick of his fingers and the gates groan open.
Inside, Velcryn is both darker and more beautiful than I expected.
The streets are clean but quiet, lined with twisted, crystalline growths that glow faintly from within.
The buildings are carved with sharp, elegant angles, designed to intimidate rather than welcome.
Shadows stretch longer than they should here.
As if light itself is reluctant to linger.
The square is too quiet. No market noise, no idle chatter. Just the low hum of magic coiled under the stone like something sleeping. Watching.
I glance up at the nearest tower and swear I see a flicker of movement, eyes behind glass, or maybe just ghosts of the past. This place feels like it remembers every war it's ever fought. And now I’m here, walking into the jaws of something ancient and sharp.
I dismount in the central square where a tall figure waits.
Prince Zeidan.
He is exactly as the rumors describe: obsidian hair, pale as moonlight, eyes so dark they catch the firelight like polished obsidian.
He stands like a predator wearing patience as armor.
And when his gaze lands on me, I feel something shift.
A tension in the air, like the instant before lightning strikes.
He inclines his head. "Heir Crow. Welcome to Velcryn."
"Let’s skip the pleasantries," I reply. "We both know why I’m here."
A flicker of amusement touches his lips. "Then by all means. Let’s talk terms."
We are led into a chamber carved from blackstone, lit with hanging orbs of blue flame. No windows. No escape. Zeidan gestures toward the long table between us.
"Your coven needs aid. Resources. Magical reinforcement."
"And you want something in return."
"Naturally."
I meet his gaze, refusing to flinch under the weight of it. "We can offer trade routes. Spellstone. A political alliance."
He leans back in his chair, expression unreadable. "Insufficient."
"Then what do you want?"
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he studies me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle, as though he’s reading something written beneath my words.
His gaze is sharp, deliberate, not the casual appraisal of a man assessing a woman, but something colder.
Strategic. Still, I can’t help noticing the way the firelight cuts across his face, sharpening the lines of his cheekbones, catching in the black of his eyes.
Annoyingly handsome, I think. In a dangerous, predatory way.
“You come prepared,” he says at last. “Trade routes. Spellstone. Alliances.” His mouth curves faintly. “You assume those things still hold value to us.”
“They should,” I reply. “They’ve held value for centuries.”
“Centuries ago,” he counters, “your people didn’t seal themselves behind failing wards and call it independence.”
Heat flares in my chest. “We didn’t ask for your protection then, either.”
“No,” he agrees calmly. “You asked for nothing. And now you’re asking for everything.”
I step closer to the table, bracing my hands against its edge. “We’re asking for cooperation. Mutual benefit.”
“Benefit,” he repeats, testing the word. His gaze flicks briefly to the sigil at my throat, and my pulse jumps. “Your coven is bleeding magic. The blight is not a border problem, it’s a structural collapse. Whatever you think you’re offering, it won’t be enough to stabilize it.”
“You don’t know that,” I snap.
“I do,” he says softly. “Because I can feel it.”
That stops me.
The air between us hums, subtle, almost imagined, but my skin tightens all the same, like it’s responding to something I can’t see. I straighten, suddenly aware of how close he is now, how little space separates us.
“If you have a better solution,” I say carefully, “then say it.”
His eyes darken, something unreadable passing through them. When he finally speaks, his voice is low. Controlled.
“There is one thing,” he says, “that binds magic at its root. Not symbolically. Not politically.”
I hold his gaze, heart pounding.
“What?” I ask.
His answer is quiet. Dangerous.
“A mate bond.”
Silence falls so fast I can hear the blood in my ears.
I laugh, once. Harsh. "You’re joking."
"I am not."
"That bond is sacred. It isn’t a tool for politics."
"Everything is a tool, Heir Crow."
I stand so fast the chair skitters back. "Absolutely not. Find another way."
Zeidan doesn’t rise. He just watches me. "There is no other way. Your Matron sent you here because she knows that."
"She sent me to negotiate, not to chain myself to a Vrakken."
His eyes narrow slightly, but his voice remains calm. "A bond would offer more than symbolism. It would stabilize the magic. Create a conduit between us. One that could slow the blight."
My heart pounds. Because some part of me knows he’s right. And that terrifies me more than anything.
"I need time," I say.
Zeidan nods once. "You have until dawn."
I storm into the guest quarters they’ve given me—luxurious, cold, and too quiet. My satchel lands hard on the marble floor. I pace, each step echoing off walls carved with old Vrakken runes. I recognize some. Others feel like they’re watching me.
A mate bond. It would start to bind me to him. Physically. Magically. Maybe more. Every part of me rebels at the thought.
The sigil on my chest pulses. Once, twice, then steadies.
I drop into a low chair, burying my face in my hands. What would my mother have done? Fought, probably. Spat in his face and walked out.
But this isn’t her war. It’s mine.
I strip off my gloves and stare down at my hands. The veins glow faintly, as if reacting to the bond magic in the air. I should be scared. I am scared.
And still, a part of me wonders what it would feel like. To have that connection. To be seen. To be known.
I spend nearly an hour pacing. Back and forth, hands clenched, thoughts spiraling. I draft and discard a dozen possible refusals, rehearse arguments he’ll never hear, counterpoints Zeidan won’t accept.
But they all fall apart when I remember how he looked at me, like he knew something I didn’t.
Like the bond wasn’t a threat, but a door. And gods help me, part of me wanted to open it.
I force myself to meditate. I light a small crystal flame and draw runes in the air, trying to ground myself. But the magic hums wrong here. Unfamiliar. And when I close my eyes, I don’t see light.
I see a shadow.
My breath catches.
I open my eyes, half-expecting the room to have changed, but the stone walls are still there, the crystal flame still flickering weakly. Whatever I saw isn’t here. Not yet.
I exhale slowly, forcing my shoulders to loosen. I’ve pushed myself too hard. Too much travel. Too much fear. Too much of him lingering in my thoughts like a spell I didn’t cast.
“It’s just exhaustion,” I whisper, though the words don’t quite convince me.
I extinguish the flame with a flick of my fingers and cross to the bed. The linens are cool and heavy, smelling faintly of night-bloom and steel. I lie back, staring up at the dark ceiling, tracing the unfamiliar constellations carved into the stone above me.
I don’t mean to sleep. I tell myself I’ll rest for a moment. Just long enough to clear my head.
The sigil over my heart pulses. Then again.
The shadows in room seem to stretch, thickening, blurring. My limbs grow heavy, pinned not by fear but by something softer and pulling.
The last thing I think, as the darkness folds in around me, is his voice—low, controlled, dangerous.
And then I fall.
The vision comes on like a storm.
I’m standing in the heart of Velcryn, but it’s not the city I saw. It’s older, rawer, cloaked in mist and blood. The towers rise like fangs into a blood-red sky. And I am not alone.
Shadows wrap around me, not like chains but like breath, curling over my skin, whispering in forgotten tongues.
At the center of it all stands Zeidan. His eyes glow brighter than moonlight, and his voice reaches me like a caress and a command.
"Come to me."
I try to move. My legs won’t obey. My heart slams against my ribs.
"Blood calls to blood," he says. "You cannot run from it."
The shadows pulse.
And then I wake, gasping, drenched in cold sweat.
Outside, the bells toll midnight. And the sigil over my heart is burning.