Chapter 9 Amelia
AMELIA
The archive smells like dust, pressed flowers, and secrets no one meant to survive. It’s one of my favourite places.
I stand at the center of the circular chamber, surrounded by shelves that curve upward into shadow, each carved from living rootstone.
The Wildspont hums faintly beneath my boots, quieter here, muffled by centuries of wards and reverence.
This place was built to remember things the coven prefers to forget.
Zeidan stands across from me, one hand braced against a stone table layered in scrolls and bone-bound tomes. He looks wildly out of place among the soft glow of spirit-lanterns and woven prayer charms, dark, sharp, contained. Like a blade laid carefully among relics.
We were supposed to be here to save my lands. To find answers. To be practical.
Instead, he is distracting me in a way I don’t know how to name without admitting too much.
Ever since the bond snapped into place, my awareness of him has been relentless.
A gravity I feel even when I refuse to look directly at him.
I can sense where he stands in the room without trying, the subtle shift of air when he moves, the quiet concentration coiled beneath his stillness.
It makes it harder to focus, harder to breathe evenly, harder to remember why I decided ignoring him was the safer option.
So I do. I ignore the pull. I ignore him.
Because interest is one thing, curiosity is manageable. But this…this is something that could become more if I let it, and that kind of weakness is dangerous, especially with someone like him.
Still… my gaze betrays me when I’m not careful.
His features are mesmerizing in a way that feels unfair, almost unnatural.
Vrakken beauty isn’t soft or inviting; it’s eternal, honed, sharpened by time.
I wonder how old he really is, how many centuries are carved into that calm expression.
I wonder if the stories are true. If his fangs are as sharp as they say. If a bite would hurt.
Or if it would feel like something else entirely.
The thought startles me, heat curling low in my stomach, and I turn sharply back to my work, heart pounding.
This bond is already too much. And I have to remember that he is not a temptation. He is a risk.
But I can’t help wanting to talk to him. Just a little. To understand him. To put edges around the shape of him instead of letting him exist as this looming, dangerous presence in my mind.
“You’re scowling,” I tell him, without looking up from the text I’m deciphering.
“I’m reading,” he replies coolly.
“That’s a scowl.”
He glances at me, black eyes unreadable. “Your people write in circles. Every sentence contradicts itself twice before arriving at a conclusion.”
“That’s called nuance.”
“That’s called inefficient.”
I snort despite myself and trace the spiral glyph etched into the page. The book beneath my fingers is old, older than the schism, if the marginal notes are any indication. The script shifts between Nytherian root-language and something sharper, older. Vrakken-adjacent.
My stomach tightens.
“This isn’t just bond lore,” I murmur. “It’s… intersectional. Wildspont convergence theory.”
Zeidan straightens slightly. “Meaning?”
I hesitate, then meet his gaze. “Meaning our bond didn’t just tie us together. It may have anchored something else.”
He steps closer. The bond responds instantly, a low thrum under my ribs. I ignore it.
“There are references here,” I continue, tapping the page, “to buried Wildsponts. Dormant ones. Sealed after catastrophic overchanneling.”
“Catastrophic,” he repeats. “As in cities lost?”
“As in gods intervened.”
That earns me his full attention.
Zeidan exhales slowly. “Read that part again.”
I do. Out loud this time.
When blood binds blood beneath the living root, the earth remembers its first breath. Power answers power. And the buried heart stirs.
Silence stretches between us.
“That vision you saw,” I say quietly. “The ash. The crown. It might not be about destruction.”
His jaw tightens. “Or it might be about apotheosis.”
The word lands heavy.
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t say that.”
“You asked me to help you find the truth,” he replies evenly. “Not comfort you.”
I hate that he’s right.
We work in silence for a while after that. Scrolls shift. Pages turn. At some point, I realize how close he’s standing, how his shoulder brushes mine every time he leans in to read. The contact sends a ripple through the bond, warm and grounding.
“Your handwriting,” he says suddenly, glancing at my notes. “It’s… precise.”
I blink. “Thank you?”
“It matches you,” he adds. “Controlled. Sharp. Refuses to soften for anyone.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I’m beginning to.”
I close the book a little too hard. The sound echoes sharper than I intend. Dust stirs between us.
I don’t look at him when I speak. “You sent me something. The night you left. A vision of a beautiful place.”
The bond tightens, subtle but immediate. A pressure just beneath my ribs. Zeidan exhales slowly, like he’s weighing whether honesty is worth the cost.
“Yes,” he says, but doesn't elaborate.
I lift my head. “Why?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens, the faintest flicker of tension crossing his face before it smooths back into control.
“Because the bond between us is no longer just magical, Amelia.”
The word lands heavy between us.
I stiffen. “Don’t—”
“I know,” he cuts in calmly. “You don’t like the term. You don’t want to name it. But that’s what it is.” His gaze locks on mine, sharp and unyielding. “And pretending otherwise doesn’t change the mechanics.”
My pulse kicks harder. “That still doesn’t explain—”
“It does,” he says. “Connection means awareness. I feel you.” He pauses, then adds, almost dismissively, “More than is strictly necessary.”
Heat creeps up my neck.
“That doesn’t give you the right—”
“I didn’t take anything,” he says, voice cool. “I didn’t pry. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t push.” His fingers flex once against the stone table. “You were exhausted. Your magic was fraying. So I did what the bond allows.”
“And that was?” I demand.
“To give you rest.”
The words are clipped, almost harsh, like he’s daring me to accuse him.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” he continues quickly, retreating behind formality. “Don’t misinterpret it. I wasn’t being… sentimental. It was a practical response. Stabilization. That’s all.”
“Then why did it feel like peace?” I ask quietly.
He stills. Just for a fraction of a second.
“Because,” he says, more carefully now, “the bond doesn’t distinguish between necessity and kindness.”
The air hums, thick with things neither of us is willing to say. But I know he is lying.
I swallow. “You could’ve warned me.”
“Yes,” he admits. “I could have.”
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
His eyes flick away first.
“I wanted you to sleep,” he says, softer despite himself. “That was the priority.”
Before I can reply, a chime echoes through the archive, low and resonant. A ritual call.
My shoulders tense.
“Tonight,” I say. “The Renewal Rite.”
His expression darkens. “The one I’m barred from. I heard the Purnas mumbling they didn’t want me there.”
I nod. “They’ll say it’s sacred. That outsiders disrupt the balance.”
“And you believe that?” he asks.
“No,” I say honestly. “I think they’re afraid of what the gods might say if you’re present.”
He studies me. Then: “What do you want?”
I don’t hesitate. “I want you there.”
His brows draw together, shadows sharpening the lines of his face. “They won’t allow it.”
“I know. They’ll sense your Vrakken magic the moment you cross the circle. But I want you there, so I will talk with the council.”
“Then why insist?” he asks quietly. “Why fight them on this?”
Because the thought of you standing outside while my gods judge my people makes my stomach twist. Because if this bond is going to drag us both into ruin, I won’t let you be a ghost haunting the edges of my life.
Instead, I say, “Because you should see us as we are. Not just when we’re desperate.”
His gaze holds mine, searching for the lie I’m not giving him.
“You said it yourself,” I continue. “We’re mates. Whether we like the word or not. And if you’re going to stand in my land and touch its magic, you don’t get to be blind to the rituals that shaped it.”
He is silent for a moment then says dryly: “You’re planning something.”
I smile. “I always am.”
The Purnas forbid him to attend, as I expected. They frame it as the most important ceremony that is very sacred and important for our balance and tradition. I listen, nod, thank them for their concern, and walk straight back to Zeidan’s chambers.
He’s removing his gloves when I enter.
“They said no,” he says without looking at me.
“Correct.”
“You look pleased.”
“I’m improvising.”
That finally earns me his full attention. He turns slowly, black eyes narrowing. “Amelia.”
“You’re attending,” I say. “Just not as yourself.”
He looks at me like I have lost my mind.
“Explain.”
I cross the room and reach for the wardrobe, already rifling through the folded ceremonial garments stored there for visiting dignitaries. “The ritual allows witnesses. They just don’t want you. So you’ll be someone else.”
“You plan to disguise a Vrakken prince,” he says flatly, “inside a consecrated god-circle.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds reckless.”
His mouth twitches despite himself.
I hold up a layered tunic of ash-gray linen, woven with grounding thread. “This will dampen your aura. Not erase it. But soften it enough to blend.”
“And the rest?” he asks.
I lift a dark mantle, heavy with stitched sigils. “Hood. Shadow. Silence.”
He steps closer as I adjust the fabric against his chest, fingers brushing skin far warmer than it should be. The bond stirs, curious and pleased.
“You’re very determined,” he murmurs.
I glance up. “They don’t get to decide what parts of my life you’re allowed to witness.”
Something shifts in his expression. “You don’t need to prove anything to them,” he says.
“I’m not,” I reply. “I’m proving it to myself.”
He exhales, slow and controlled. “We don’t have to pretend to be something we’re not. This bond is for political reasons.”
“I know,” I say softly. “But this isn’t pretending. This is sharing.”
For a moment, I think he’ll refuse.
Then he inclines his head. “Very well. Lead the way.”
The festival begins before nightfall. Lanterns bloom between the trees like fallen stars. Tables are laid with spiced roots, honeyed breads, glowing cups of fermented sap. Music hums low and rhythmic, pulsing with the Wildspont’s heartbeat.
Zeidan stays close, hood drawn, magic pressed tight and quiet beneath layers of restraint. I guide him through the crowd, offering him tastes of everything.
“This,” I say, handing him a cup, “will burn.”
He sniffs it. “Everything here burns.”
He drinks, and coughs once, sharply.
I grin. “You’ll survive.”
His eyes gleam from the shadows of the hood. “Your hospitality is vicious.”
We laugh. Gods help me, we actually laugh. For a few stolen moments, the bond feels light and curious. Almost playful.
Then the drums change. The ritual begins.
I step into the circle barefoot, the earth cool and alive beneath my skin. My breath slows as I raise my hands, channeling magic downward, into root and stone and bone.
I feel him then. Just watching me from the edge of the circle, wrapped in shadow, his presence steadies me like an anchor sunk deep into my spine. The bond hums in approval, a low, resonant note.
The ground pulses. Something old stirs beneath us. The gods listen. The Wildspont answers me more readily than it has in months.
Magic pours from my palms in a steady stream, sinking into the earth, threading through root and soil and old stone. But it doesn’t feel like it usually does, thin, strained, aching. It feels… reinforced. As if something stronger has slid beneath it, bracing it from below.
His magic…A dark countercurrent braided seamlessly with mine, stabilizing, grounding. Where my power burns hot and bright, his runs deep and cold, a steady pressure that keeps it from spiraling. Together, it feels right. Balanced in a way I didn’t know was possible.
The bond swells, warm and resonant, humming through my veins like a second pulse. I draw a breath and feel him do the same, somewhere beyond the ring of lantern light. I know without looking that his attention is fixed on me.
The ground shudders. A low, ancient sound rolls beneath my feet, not a voice, but acknowledgment. The gods are still listening. The Wildspont opens, just a fraction, this time it doesn’t feel like it’s begging.
It feels hopeful. I lift my hands higher, surrendering to the rhythm, to the pull of the circle, to the quiet certainty that I am not alone in this.
Then a light flashes at the edge of my vision. Metal catches the firelight. A blade, slicing through the crowd, moving far too fast. Straight for my heart.