Chapter 13 Amelia
AMELIA
He tells me he has to return to Velcryn at dawn. He says it casually like he’s discussing the weather.
“The Matrons have demanded an audience,” he says, adjusting the cuff of his glove with precise, deliberate movements. “They want to assess the bond. And me.”
“Assess how?” I ask.
His mouth curves faintly, but there’s no humor in it. “They want to see whether I’ve changed.”
The word hangs between us.
“Have you?” I ask.
His dark gaze flicks to mine. “That’s what they intend to determine.”
I step closer despite myself. “What do they think the bond does? Corrupts you? Weakens you?”
“They think it compromises me.” A pause. “They think you do.”
My magic stirs at that, offended and restless.
“And what do you think?” I demand.
He doesn’t answer immediately. That’s how I know it matters.
“I think,” he says slowly, “that the bond accelerates alignment. Power seeks power. It doesn’t dilute. It amplifies.”
I cross my arms. “You’re avoiding something.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Am I?”
“Yes. What do they really want?”
“To see whether I still serve Velcryn first.”
“And do you?”
The question lands harder than I expect.
His jaw tightens. “I serve Velcryn. I always will.”
It’s not the whole truth. I feel that much.
“What do you want, Zeidan?” I ask quietly.
Something shifts in him. The air changes. The bond tightens, attentive.
“You know why I offered the bond,” he says.
“No,” I cut in. “I know what you said. Resources. Reinforcement. Strategy. But you didn’t do it just to keep me from turning against you. And you didn’t do it because you trust me.”
His gaze sharpens. “Careful.”
“Tell me the truth.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and volatile.
The bond hums low, uneasy, like it knows what’s coming before I do.
Zeidan steps closer. Just enough that the space between us collapses, and suddenly the air feels warmer, tighter.
His presence presses against my senses, a steady, dangerous gravity.
I can feel his restraint like a physical thing, coiled tight beneath his skin.
He reaches out, slow enough that I could pull away. I don’t.
His fingers tip my chin up, firm but careful, forcing my gaze to meet his. His eyes are darker than usual, threaded with shadow, intent sharpened to something that makes my breath hitch despite myself.
“I want the power of both lands,” he says.
The honesty hits like a blow to the chest. For a heartbeat, I can’t breathe.
The bond reacts instantly, heat flaring, tension snapping tight, my magic answering his words with a pulse that skitters across my skin like lightning looking for ground.
Fury floods me, sharp and burning, and I know he feels it because his grip tightens just slightly, not to restrain, but to brace.
I try to step back. He doesn’t let me.
“So that’s it,” I say, my voice shaking despite my effort to steady it. “You used me.”
Something flashes across his face then, too fast to name, too honest to fully hide. Regret, maybe. Or irritation at himself for feeling it.
“I made an offer,” he says quietly. “You accepted it. I partnered with you.”
“You bound yourself to me to gain access to Nytheria.”
“I bound myself to you to prevent two realms from collapsing separately,” he says evenly. “Together, they are stronger. Together, they are untouchable.”
“You didn’t ask,” I snap.
“You wouldn’t have agreed.”
That infuriates me because it’s true.
“So that’s it?” I demand. “You save what I love, and in return I hand it over?”
His expression goes cold. “You don’t hand it over. You share it.”
The word slams into me.
“Share,” I repeat carefully.
“Yes.”
My anger falters, just slightly.
“Are you really willing to share?” I ask. “Or do you think that eventually you’ll dominate it? Absorb it? Control it?”
He doesn’t answer immediately because he doesn’t know. Then he exhales.
“I am willing to share,” he says, and this time there is no edge. No performance. “You are strong. You are capable. And you are not easily bent. You would make a powerful ally.”
Ally. Not pawn. Not asset. Ally.
“As long as,” he continues quietly, “you work toward the same goals I do.”
“And those are?”
“Stability. Power. Survival. Strength that cannot be fractured by petty councils or ancient grudges.”
My pulse slows.
“You don’t want to rule Nytheria,” I say carefully.
“No,” he replies. “I want it to stand beside Velcryn.”
The bond hums low, almost approving. I study him.
“You could have lied,” I say.
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
I swallow.
“Fine,” I say finally. “We share.”
His gaze sharpens. “You agree?”
“I agree,” I say. “On one condition.”
His brow lifts slightly.
“I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You’re recovering. Your magic is volatile.”
“Exactly,” I snap. “You think I’m going to stay here alone while the bond tears itself apart over distance? While my power decides to misfire every time you step too far away?”
He goes still.
“You felt it,” I press. “You know what separation does to us right now.”
His silence is answer enough.
“I’m not staying behind,” I say more quietly. “Not when I don’t trust what my magic will do. Not when I don’t trust myself yet.”
His gaze searches my face. I dont know what he sees there but he agrees.
“Very well,” he says.
Relief rushes through the bond before either of us can mask it.
“You will remain at my side,” he adds. “Velcryn is not Nytheria.”
“I gathered.”
“And you do not antagonize the Matrons.”
I lift a brow. “Define antagonize.”
His mouth twitches despite himself.
“Amelia.”
“I’ll try,” I concede.
That’s the best he’s getting.
Velcryn swallows him whole the moment we arrive. The Matrons demand him in chambers before the sun has fully set. He leaves me in guest quarters lined with black stone and silver inlay, guarded but untouched.
He doesn’t come back that night. Or the next.
The bond strains under the distance even within the same citadel. I feel his exhaustion. His restraint. His irritation as he navigates political venom and veiled threats.
But I don’t feel him beside me. And that’s worse. The bond does not like distance. I discover this the hard way.
It starts as a pressure behind my eyes, a dull ache that sharpens every hour Zeidan spends across the compound instead of down the hall.
By the third day, my magic refuses to settle at all.
It skitters beneath my skin like trapped lightning, misfiring at the smallest provocation.
By nightfall, my hands shake when I try to light a candle.
Zeidan feels it too. I know because the bond tells me, a steady pulse of restrained irritation, concern buried under control, the constant, unrelenting pull toward me like gravity misaligned.
“This is inefficient,” he says finally, standing in the doorway of my guest quarters like he’s negotiating a treaty instead of invading my personal space. “You’re deteriorating.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, sitting stiffly at the small table where my dinner has gone untouched.
“You’re glowing,” he replies flatly.
I glance down. He’s right. Faint threads of magic curl along my wrists, bright and unstable.
“…Fine,” I amend.
The silence stretches. He looks at me and then:
“I’ll stay,” he says.
My heart stutters. “Stay… where?”
His gaze flicks meaningfully to the room. The bed. The hearth. The single, very much single living space.
“This is temporary,” he adds, too quickly. “Until the bond stabilizes.”
“Of course,” I say, equally fast. “Purely medical.”
“Magical.”
“Right. Magical.”
Neither of us moves. Eventually, he steps inside. Forced proximity turns out to be its own kind of torture.
Zeidan does not pace, but he does occupy space with infuriating efficiency.
He leans against walls like they were designed for him.
He removes his gloves and sets them down with deliberate care.
He stands too close without touching, his presence brushing my awareness constantly, the bond humming low and satisfied now that the distance is gone.
We trade barbs like it’s a competitive sport neither of us is willing to lose. This is our routine now. Everytime we act nice to each other we then pretend it meant nothing.
“You’re scowling again,” I tell him, squinting down at the page as if deciphering ancient runes instead of cataloguing the way his jaw tightens when he’s annoyed.
“I don’t scowl,” he replies calmly.
I glance up. “Your face has been carved into permanent disapproval.”
“That’s just my face.”
“No,” I say thoughtfully. “This one’s specific.”
His eyes flick to mine, unimpressed. “Yesterday you ignited a basin of water.”
“It was aggressive water.”
“It was still water.”
“It knew what it did.”
He exhales slowly through his nose. “You cannot declare war on elements that don’t have intent.”
“Watch me.”
His mouth twitches before he can stop it. Victory.
I lean back in my chair. “You’re just upset because my magic is more dramatic than yours.”
“My magic does not need theatrics to be effective.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, gesturing vaguely at him. “The whole shadow-and-fangs aesthetic feels very intentional.”
“It’s called presence.”
“It’s called branding.”
That earns me a sharper look, but there’s heat under it now. Amusement he refuses to admit.
“And you,” he says smoothly, “set furniture on fire when emotionally inconvenienced.”
“That happened once.”
“It happened twice.”
“The second time was decorative.”
He studies me for a long, deliberate second. “You are exhausting.”
“And yet,” I say sweetly, “you remain.”
A pause.
The bond hums between us, warm and charged, amused and dangerously close to comfortable.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “I do.”
Dinner is worse. The chamber is dim, lit by a low fire and a single spirit-lantern that hums softly as if even it senses the strain between us. The table is small. Intentionally so, I think. We sit across from one another, knees almost brushing beneath the narrow span of polished wood.
I have stew and bread. He has nothing at first.