Chapter 12 Zeidan
ZEIDAN
Inotice the instability before she does.
It’s subtle at first. A fluctuation at the edge of my senses, a wrongness in the rhythm of the bond that doesn’t belong to pain or fear.
Amelia’s magic no longer settles after exertion.
It rebounds. Echoes. Lingers too long in the air, like heat trapped beneath glass.
It worries me.
She stands in the outer practice ring with the other Purnas, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair braided tight to keep it out of her face. She looks composed and focused. If I didn’t feel the bond tug and twist every time she channels, I might believe she has this under control.
The ritual circle etched into the stone beneath her feet is simple, grounding and flow, meant to teach restraint. Amelia raises her hands, palms outward, and draws magic upward from the earth.
The Wildspont answers, but its too fast and a lot of energy at once. The air hums sharply. Runes flare brighter than they should, their lines thickening, light bleeding beyond their bounds. The circle vibrates underfoot, stone cracking faintly as power surges outward in a sudden, uncontrolled wave.
“Amelia,” I snap.
She hears me, but too late. The magic spikes. Fire blossoms along the lines of the circle, not flame exactly, but raw energy burning white-hot, devouring the sigils meant to contain it. One of the younger Purnas stumbles back with a shout as heat lashes past her.
I move without thinking. My magic slams down like a net, shadow folding around Amelia’s flare, smothering it before it can ignite fully. The circle gutters and dies, scorched and smoking. Silence crashes over the ring.
Amelia stands frozen at the center, chest heaving, eyes wide.
The bond screams in panic. The sharp edge of fear she refuses to voice. I step into the ring.
“Enough,” I say, voice low but absolute.
The others hesitate. They glance between us, between her shaking hands and my presence like a blade drawn too close to the throat. They still dont trust me and I can see my presence scares them, but I dont care. I am not here for them.
“Go,” I repeat.
They scatter quickly. No one argues. When we’re alone, the tension snaps loose.
“I didn’t mean to—” Amelia starts.
“I know,” I cut in.
Her magic is still flaring, bleeding outward in erratic pulses. The ground beneath her feet glows faintly, roots stirring in restless response. If she pushes again, she’ll burn herself out, or worse.
I close the distance between us deliberately.
“Look at me,” I say.
She does. Her eyes are bright, too bright, reflecting power she can’t quite rein in.
“You’re fighting it,” I continue, calmer now. “That’s why it’s rebounding.”
“I’m not,” she insists, too quickly.
I lift one hand. Not touching her, just close enough that she can feel the weight of it.
“You are,” I say. “You’re bracing every time you channel. Anticipating collapse. The Wildspont feels that tension and answers it with force.”
Her jaw tightens. “You make it sound simple.”
“It isn’t,” I reply. “But it is… precise.”
She exhales sharply. “Then help me.”
The words land heavier than she intends. I hesitate only a moment before nodding.
“Close your eyes,” I say.
She does, reluctantly.
“Breathe,” I instruct. “Slow. Even. Don’t pull. Don’t push.”
Her breath stutters once, then steadies. I step closer.
“Ground yourself in sensation,” I continue. “Not magic. Feel the stone beneath your feet. The air against your skin. The weight of your body.”
Her shoulders ease a fraction.
“The bond,” I add quietly. “Let it exist. Don’t resist it.”
Her breath catches.
“I don’t know how,” she admits.
I reach for her then and take her hand in mine. The instant our skin meets, the bond flares, warm, resonant, alive. Her magic responds immediately, settling into a smoother, quieter flow. The chaotic spikes dull into a steady hum.
Amelia gasps softly.
“Oh.”
The sound does something dangerous to me.
“Focus there,” I murmur. “ On the balance.”
Her fingers curl around mine without realizing it. The Wildspont calms.
The scorched runes beneath us fade, stone cooling as the excess energy bleeds harmlessly into the earth. The air clears. The tension drains from her posture like water from a cracked vessel.
She opens her eyes. Her gaze flicks to our joined hands. Then back to my face.
“I—” She swallows. “It stopped.”
“Yes.”
“Because of you.”
“Because of us,” I correct before I can stop myself.
Something shifts between us at that. She withdraws her hand slowly, as if afraid of disturbing whatever fragile equilibrium we’ve found. Her magic remains calm. I don’t miss the way she flexes her fingers, as if surprised they’re no longer shaking.
“The bond is deepening,” I say, more to myself than her.
Her brow furrows. “Is that bad?”
“It’s… fast,” I answer honestly. “Faster than most recorded cases.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It means the connection is reinforcing itself,” I explain. “Responding to shared stress. Shared danger.”
Her mouth quirks faintly. “Well, we’ve had plenty of that.”
I don’t smile.
“This level of synchronization can be… difficult,” I continue. “Emotions bleed more freely. Magic mirrors instinct.”
She looks at me and asks. “And you’re okay with that?”
The question is deceptively simple.
“I am managing it,” I say.
She huffs a soft laugh. “That wasn’t an answer.”
“No,” I agree. “It wasn’t.”
Silence stretches between us, its not uncomfortable, but charged. The bond hums low and steady, like something pleased with itself.
“Thank you,” she says finally.
The words are awkward, and unpolished, but entirely sincere.
I incline my head. “You’re welcome.”
She hesitates, then adds, quieter, “For not… panicking.”
I meet her gaze. “Panic would’ve made it worse.”
Her lips curve slightly. “You’re good at this. Teaching, I mean.”
“I’ve had practice,” I say.
She watches me, curiosity flickering. “With other bonds?”
She watches me, curiosity flickering. “With other bonds?”
“No,” I reply. “With myself.”
That earns me a sharper look, the kind she gives when she’s cataloguing something for later. She doesn’t look away as we step out of the practice ring, the scorched stone cooling behind us, her magic finally quiet.
“You know a lot about Purna magic,” she says after a moment. “More than you should.”
I glance at her sideways. “Observation isn’t forbidden.”
“That wasn’t what I meant,” she says. “You recognized the flare before anyone else. You knew how it would spiral.” She hesitates, then adds, “You knew how to stop it.”
I don’t answer right away. The truth sits heavy in my mouth. Not something I give lightly.
“There are things about Vrakken training,” I say finally, “that aren’t written down. Things learned the hard way. Besides I have a past with Purnas.”
She studies my face, searching for cracks. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I’ll tell you another time.”
Disappointment flashes, quick, controlled, but she nods. “You always say that.”
“And I always mean it.”
We walk a little farther in silence. The Wildspont murmurs softly around us, roots shifting beneath stone, listening. Then she speaks again, quieter now.
“What is it like?” she asks. “Being Vrakken.”
I stop. She stops too, turning to face me fully. There’s no accusation in her eyes. No fear. Just honest curiosity, stripped of politics and suspicion.
“What part?” I ask.
She considers. “The bond. Mating. The… stories.”
I almost laugh.
“Most of what you’ve heard is exaggerated,” I say. “And the rest is deliberately misunderstood.”
Her brow lifts. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the safest one.”
She folds her arms. “Humor me.”
I exhale slowly. “Traditional Vrakken mating has ceremony. Witness, blood, old sacred law. But not everyone follows the old rites anymore. The bite is the physical anchor, not the whole of it.” I pause.
“The bite is not ownership. It’s recognition.
A physical anchor for something already chosen.
But mating is uncommon in the Vrakken community since me live for thousands of years. ”
Her pulse flickers through the bond in interest, heat, something sharper.
“Does it hurt? The bite I mean.” she asks.
“No,” I say honestly. “Its mostly pleasurable .”
She swallows. “And the bond? Is it always… like this?”
“No,” I answer, just as quietly. “This is different.”
“Different how?”
“Faster,” I say. “Deeper and…less patient.”
Her gaze drops, then lifts again. “That doesn’t sound accidental.”
“It isn’t,” I agree.
We stand there for a moment, too close, the bond humming in that dangerous, contented way that makes my instincts lean forward even as my mind pulls back.
“I don’t want to pretend,” she says suddenly. “About this. About us.”
“I’m not asking you to,” I reply.
“But you are holding back.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Because if I don’t, I won’t know how to stop. Because Vrakken don’t bind easily.
“Because some truths, once spoken, don’t stay contained.”
She studies me, then nods slowly. “Then another time.”
“Yes,” I say again. And this time, it feels like a promise.
She hesitates, then tilts her head, eyes bright with curiosity she’s trying, and failing, to mask. “Is that why you never feed in front of me?” she asks, clearly aiming to shift the weight of the moment. “Professional courtesy?”
I huff a laugh. It surprises us both.
“You want to see me drink blood?” I ask, arching a brow.
Her mouth quirks. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t deny it either.”
She shrugs, unapologetic. “I live with glowing roots, talking stones, and gods that whisper through soil. A Vrakken drinking blood barely cracks the top ten strangest things in my life.”
That gets a real laugh out of me. “For the record,” I say, “it’s rarely as dramatic as the stories.”
“Disappointing,” she replies. “I was hoping for brooding candles and excessive menace.”
“I can do excessive menace,” I say dryly. “The candles are negotiable.”
She snorts before she can stop herself, then clamps her mouth shut like she’s betrayed some internal rule. The bond warms, pleased, like it’s filing this moment away for later.
“For what it’s worth,” she adds, softer now, “I’m glad you don’t hide everything behind teeth and shadows.”
I glance at her. “Careful.”
“Why?”
“If you keep talking like that,” I say, “you’ll start making me sound approachable.”
Her smile flashes, quick and wicked. “Perish the thought.”
We walk together, the air lighter than it’s been in days. Her magic stays calm. So does mine.
Since the assassination attempt, the bond feels… right.
Which is precisely why I don’t trust it.
That evening, as the sun sinks behind the canopy and Nytheria settles into uneasy calm, a runner finds me at the end of the inner ward.
He bows low, breathless. “Message from Velcryn.”
I take the sealed parchment without comment.
The wax bears the Matron Council’s sigil.
I don’t need to open it to know. Still, I do. The message is brief, formal and unyielding.
You are summoned. Immediately.
I close my fist around the parchment. The bond stirs, reacting to my irritation, my readiness.
Amelia looks up from across the courtyard, sensing the shift even without words. Our eyes meet. I don’t tell her yet. But Velcryn is calling. And the Matrons never summon without blood on their minds.