Chapter 5 Amelia
AMELIA
Iwake to pain and heat and a heartbeat that is not mine.
The stone floor beneath me is cold, slick with condensation, but the magic still hums in the air like an echo refusing to fade. My body aches in places I didn’t know could ache, as if every bone has been unraveled and reknit. My eyes flutter open.
Zeidan is beside me, watching me carefully. I can feel he is hurt too, exhausted, and drained. I know he knows we just realized we were fated mates. But I will not accept this bond! He bonding his magic to mine is enough. I can’t give him more.
He crouches low, head bowed, one hand pressed to his chest. There’s a cut on his cheek, still bleeding. His breathing is ragged. And yet, when he lifts his head and our eyes lock, I feel it: a surge. Not his magic…his emotion.
He is furious. Afraid. And above all, stunned.
I bolt upright with a gasp, and he mirrors the movement a second later.
"What did you do to me?" I demand, voice hoarse.
His black eyes narrow. "I did exactly what you agreed to."
"That wasn’t a bond, that was a storm. You said it would be controlled!"
He stands fully, towering above me. He appears like he is fine, but I can sense how he is still trembling from the magic force.
"You think I expected that? You think I wanted to be thrown halfway across the chamber by a wave of ancient magic?
Besides, you knew the risks; consider yourself lucky you survived.
And this fated mate thing means absolutely nothing, changes nothing. "
I nod and push to my feet, swaying. My legs feel like reeds in the wind.
The bond thrums inside me, an uninvited chord humming just beneath the surface of my awareness.
My sigil burns on my wrist, hot and alive.
I stare at it in awe. It's the most intricate and beautiful thinking I have ever seen.
It looks graceful and deadly like both of us.
I brush trembling fingers over the glowing lines. They’re raised slightly, like old scars that haven’t decided whether to fade or bloom. Power lingers in them, not just magic, but intention. I feel it curl under my skin, anchoring itself deep, deeper than spells ever should.
My breath shudders out. This isn’t just a symbol. It’s a tether. A brand.
Who am I now, with this on me? Am I his? Is there anything mine left?
The Wildspont hums faintly beneath my ribs, not in protest but in curiosity, like even the oldest magic is trying to adjust to this new shape of me. Of us.
Zeidan winces, clutching his side. "You should sit before you fall again."
"Don’t tell me what to do."
"Then collapse. See if I care."
The bond pulses at that, sharp, like a snapped thread pulling taut. His anger pricks against my nerves like pins. I feel it like it's mine. I stumble back a step, shaking my head. "Gods, this is…"
"Unstable," he finishes. "You need rest. So do I. Can we stop trying to snap at each other and just call it a day till we recover?"
I glance at the ritual circle. The runes are still glowing faintly, but the air no longer crackles. The storm has passed…for now.
Zeidan gestures toward the doors. "The bond will continue to fluctuate until it roots fully. That means proximity."
"Proximity?"
He looks vaguely apologetic. "We can’t be more than a room apart for the next few days. Or the backlash might rupture the bond before it settles."
"So now I’m stuck with you?"
He smirks. "Try not to sound too thrilled."
We walk in silence through the citadel’s halls, flanked by wary guards and servants who avert their eyes. Everyone knows what we’ve done. They can feel it in the way the air warps around us, like the bond has left a scar on the stone.
When we reach the guest wing, a single chamber has been prepared. It’s large and beautifully austere: all dark velvet, carved obsidian, and moonlight spilling in through a narrow arch of stained crystal. There are two beds. But they’re close. Too close.
Zeidan pauses in the doorway, tension tight across his shoulders.
“I’ll take that one,” he mutters, nodding toward the bed near the door.
“Fine,” I say, too tired to bicker.
We move quietly. I sit on the edge of my bed, peeling off my outer layers, leaving only the soft underdress beneath.
The room feels too warm and too cold at once, like my skin doesn’t know how to react to the lingering hum of bond magic still coiling between us.
Zeidan doesn’t speak, but I can feel him in the room, the weight of his gaze, the rough edge of his fatigue, the fraying pulse of his control.
When I lie back, the silken sheets feel both luxurious and suffocating. The sigil on my wrist glows faintly in the dark. I lift my hand and study it, this thing that wasn’t there hours ago.
It’s not just a mark. It’s a map.
Delicate curling lines in ink-dark silver spiral outward like vines growing from a wound.
Runes are laced through it…some Nytherian, some Vrakken, some I’ve never seen.
The pattern shifts ever so slightly as I breathe, as if syncing itself to my rhythm.
It is beautiful. And terrifying, graceful, sharp, ancient, and alive.
I wonder how long we will survive before the mating bond decides to make us consummate it, to pursue it fully…
Across the room, Zeidan settles into his bed with a grunt. The bond pulses faintly and I feel it—his soreness, the burn in his limbs, the tightness in his spine. I shift on my side and close my eyes, trying to will the sensations away.
But they stay. Not painful. Just… present. Like a second body beneath my skin.
I can feel his thoughts brushing mine at the edges. Not words. Not images. Just the shape of him. Tired, guarded and conflicted.
And then something softer. A flicker of warmth that catches me off guard. Just a quiet recognition. A curiosity. I hold my breath and feel his echoing mine.
Neither of us speaks. Neither of us moves. But the bond stretches between our beds like a thread pulled taut. I shift again, and the air between us stirs charged and aware.
Eventually, I close my eyes, but it isn’t sleep that comes. It’s awareness. Of him. Of the way our magic hums in the same key now. Of how nothing will ever be fully mine again.
Then I feel it.
A flicker beneath the sigil at my collarbone. The one that ties me to Nytheria. It hums, just once, but it’s stronger than before. I sit up sharply.
Zeidan’s voice cuts through the silence. “What is it?”
I press my fingers to the mark. “The blight. The connection… it’s stronger. Just slightly, but it’s there.”
He stares across at me, his onyx eyes unreadable. But I feel his reaction through the bond: startled.
“It worked,” I whisper. “At least in part.”
His exhale is shaky but quiet. “Then we’re not too late.”
I shift slightly under the sheets, unable to stop the flutter beneath my skin. The bond is still active, but calmer now, like it’s watching us, waiting.
Zeidan’s voice cuts through the dark, softer than before. “You feel it too, don’t you?”
My throat is dry. “Yes.”
Another pause. Then: “It’s like standing in someone else’s skin.”
I stare up at the carved ceiling. “You’re too cold,” I murmur. “I can feel the tension in your spine. You hold yourself too tightly.”
He exhales, a slow sound. “And you’re too warm. You run like a fire even when you sleep.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, but the words come anyway. “You’re not what I expected.”
A beat. “Neither are you.”
The silence after that hums with something unspoken.
“I thought I’d feel… invaded,” I admit. “But this is different.”
He exhales slowly. Not a sigh, but a measured release.
“Different how?”
I hesitate. “Close.”
His jaw tightens at that. “Too close,” he says. Then, after a pause, “And not wrong.”
He doesn’t explain.
I turn onto my side to face him. He’s already watching me, though the space between the beds still feels charged, deliberate. Moonlight catches the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow at his throat. His hair hangs loose past his shoulders, untied for sleep.
“What does it feel like to you?” I ask quietly.
He’s silent long enough that I think he won’t answer.
“Like something’s inside my territory,” he says at last. “And I should’ve felt the threat.” His mouth twists, faint and humorless. “But I don’t.”
My chest tightens, not just from the words, but from what slips through the bond with them. A deep, buried weariness. Loneliness he would never name. And beneath it, a restless pull.
I close my eyes. “This isn’t just magic.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s older than that.” A beat. “It knows more than we do.”
A shiver runs through me.
“We should try to sleep,” I whisper.
“We won’t,” he says calmly. Certain. “But lie down anyway.”
The silence that follows is heavy but not sharp. Not angry. I curl slightly beneath the covers and let the echo of his presence settle around me.
A voice. Not his.
He is the key.
The words slice through my mind like cold wind. I jerk upright, gasping. Zeidan rises, already reaching for his blade.
But there’s no danger in the room. The sigil flares again, and I feel it: the tremor of something ancient… turning toward us.
And for the first time since this began, I am truly afraid.