Chapter 7 Amelia
AMELIA
We reach the borders of Nytheria just past dusk.
The Wildspont shivers as I cross the threshold, brushing invisible fingers along my skin like a welcome and a warning. Trees arch over us, thick with moss and glowing fungi, the ground soft with deep, pulsing roots. The magic here feels thinner than it should, tired. But still alive.
Behind me, Zeidan says nothing, his hood drawn low and his presence a heavy weight against my spine. The bond itches, restless. My people will feel it. The land already does.
The memory of last night’s dream clings to me like smoke. I can still feel the heat of it through the bond, the panic that wasn’t mine, the helpless fury that was. Zeidan hasn’t mentioned it since we broke camp, but I can feel the echo of it in him. Restless and watchful.
Behind me, his attention shifts, not toward danger, but toward the forest itself.
“The Wildspont,” he says quietly. “It’s… alive.”
I glance back, surprised by the softness in his voice.
“Yes.”
His gaze moves over the massive roots threading through the earth, the faint glow pulsing beneath bark and moss. “I’ve never felt magic like this before.”
“It’s older than most kingdoms,” I say. “Older than the covens.”
“And dying,” he replies.
The bluntness makes my chest tighten.
“Yes.”
He rides a little closer, lowering his voice. “How long?”
I blink. “What?”
“How long has it been failing?”
The question catches me off guard. Not suspicion. Not strategy. But concern? From him?
“Months,” I say finally. “Maybe longer. We didn’t realize at first. The Wildspont hides its wounds.”
“And you?” he asks. “When did you know it was serious?”
“When the spirits stopped answering.”
The bond flickers, a pulse of quiet understanding from him.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I almost laugh. Zeidan Valesh apologizing feels stranger than the bond itself.
We’re barely past the first wardstones when the guards appear. Blades drawn. Eyes wide.
One of them, Clara , lowers her weapon first. "Heir Crow?"
I nod. "Stand down. We’re expected."
Her gaze flicks past me to Zeidan, and I feel the instant her magic recoils. She steps back like struck. "That thing is Vrakken."
"He’s my guest. Under bond protection."
"That’s impossible."
I step forward. "No. It’s not."
Clara’s grip tightens on her blade.
“You brought him here?” she whispers, horror cracking her voice. “Into Nytheria?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes flash with betrayal. “After everything they’ve done to us?”
Behind me, Zeidan remains perfectly still. I can feel his restraint through the bond, the careful control of instinct, the readiness to defend if necessary.
“He’s under bond protection,” I repeat. “Which means he is under mine.”
Another guard steps forward. “If the Council sees this—”
“They will,” I say. “And they will listen.”
Clara searches my face, looking for doubt. Finding none, she lowers her weapon fully. But the damage is done. Fear spreads outward in ripples.
They let us pass, but only barely. The whisper spreads like fire through dry grass. By the time we reach the inner circle, half the coven is waiting.
Faces I’ve known my whole life now look at me like I’m poison. Or worse…traitor.
My mother is among them. Her expression is carved from ice.
"Inside. Now."
I nod once and lead Zeidan forward. The bond stretches between us like a leash, but I refuse to show weakness. As we step forward, Zeidan’s hand closes around mine.
I stiffen.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Stabilizing the bond,” he murmurs.
“I don’t need—”
“You’re shaking.”
I hadn’t noticed. But now that he says it, I feel the tremor in my fingers.
“I’m not afraid,” I say.
“You can pretend all you want,” he replies quietly. “But I can feel you.”
The warmth of his hand steadies something in my chest, grounding the chaos threatening to rise. I hate that it helps.
So I don’t pull away.
The coven hall smells of burned herbs and strained patience. The council is assembled.
Elder Cael speaks first. "You return with him. Why?"
"Because I made a deal to save us."
"You’ve bonded to the enemy."
"I’ve bonded to a solution. You should be thanking me."
Cael slams a hand against the table. "You’ve cursed yourself! The Vrakken broke our last truce in blood. You think this one is different?"
Zeidan says nothing. He watches the room like a wolf waiting to be attacked. Not afraid. Just... waiting.
I step closer to the council dais. "We are dying. The Wildspont is thinning, the wards failing. And you would rather cling to pride than accept help?"
A flicker of magic pulses beneath the floor. A warning. The elders are close to snapping. My mother lifts a hand. And all that follows is silence.
"You bonded him," she says. "Is it true?"
I nod once.
"Then you will prove it."
She steps down, and without waiting, slices her palm with a ceremonial blade. She presses her hand to mine. The bond surges between us, and through her pain, I feel it, hesitation, grief, fear.
And something else. A sourness, wrong and slick. It slithers beneath her thoughts, hiding.
I yank my hand back. "What was that?"
She narrows her eyes. "You tell me."
I glance at Zeidan. His expression hasn’t changed. But I feel his pulse through the bond, faster now. He felt it too.
The taste of it stays in my mouth like spoiled fruit. Wrong. The Wildspont has always felt clean, even in pain. Even in death. But this… this is corruption. Something burrowed deep beneath the surface.
My heart begins to pound. Who else feels it? I don’t speak. Not here. Not in front of them.
Zeidan’s attention sharpens beside me. I don’t look at him, but I know he’s watching, measuring my breathing, the tension in my shoulders, the sudden shift in my pulse.
He knows something is wrong in this place. Rot beneath the roots. Lies curling like smoke. And he’s waiting for me to say it. I don’t. Not yet.
The silence in the hall feels heavier than stone.
No one moves. No one speaks. The elders sit in their carved seats like statues worn smooth by centuries of stubbornness. The Wildspont’s faint pulse beneath the floor should feel comforting here, steady and eternal. Instead, it feels thin. Strained.
I remember standing in this room as a child, watching the council argue over harvest rites and border wards, believing they were unbreakable. Now I see the cracks.
Fear hides behind their anger. Guilt hides behind their silence. And beneath all of it, something darker coils, patient and unseen.
My mother returns to her seat without looking at me again. That hurts more than the shouting does.
The bond hums softly beside me, Zeidan’s presence steady and grounding in a way I don’t want to acknowledge.
He says nothing; he is leaving me to fight my battles.
But I can feel his awareness scanning the room the way a predator studies unfamiliar territory.
Measuring threats. Counting exits. Sensing weakness.
For the first time, I wonder what my home looks like through his eyes.
Not sacred. Not eternal. Just fragile. Just failing. And filled with people too afraid to admit it.
My fingers curl slightly in Zeidan’s grasp before I realize what I’m doing. I loosen them quickly, but the warmth lingers.
I am not alone here anymore. That realization is both terrifying… and strangely comforting
I face the council. "I came here to help. Not to beg. We need to cleanse the Wildspont. That starts with truth."
‘We have to consider everything we learned today and your actions without our knowledge. We will tell you our decision. You are dismissed for now.
In the shadows, I see Elder Mora trace a sigil in the air. A watching ward. It flickers once, then vanishes. The ward is subtle. Almost elegant.
A thread of silver magic slips into the air above the council table and dissolves into nothing. Anyone else might miss it. But I grew up in these halls. I know our magic. I know our tricks.
It’s a listening ward. Old magic. Quiet magic. The kind meant to observe without consent.
My stomach twists. Elder Mora keeps her expression serene, hands folded in her lap like she’s done nothing at all. Around her, the council resumes its careful silence.
They don’t trust me. Or worse… they’re afraid of what I might discover.
The bond pulses once, sharp with Zeidan’s awareness. He felt it too. Not the spell itself, but my reaction to it.
Good. Let them watch. Let them think I don’t notice. Secrets always rot faster in the dark.
She wants to spy on me. Fine then. I let her…for now.
Zeidan hasn’t spoken once since we entered, but I feel him shift beside me now. I glance at him, his gaze is fixed on my mother.
“My patience has limits,” he says, voice low, controlled. “And so does hers.”
The words fall like stones into the quiet. The council stirs uneasily. Elder Mora stills her hand in the air. My mother narrows her eyes, but doesn’t respond.
Zeidan takes a single step forward, not threatening, but not deferential either.
“She came here in good faith. She brought me through wards that should’ve torn my channels apart. You think that means she’s weak?” He lets the silence stretch. “She’s stronger than any of you want to admit.”
His voice lowers further, colder now.
“If you turn on her, don’t expect me to watch.”
The bond flares, not with anger, but with something else. Something possessive.
I freeze and so does the council. Even my mother falters. I can’t breathe for a moment. Not because I’m afraid, but because I know he means it.