Chapter Ten
Haide
The next morning, campus is already a fucking zoo.
Students swarm from the dorms, every single one of them moving like they know exactly where they’re going. Fucking sheep. I just let the current pull me along, trying to map it all out.
I stumble out to the main courtyard, a huge open space paved in dark stone that looks slick in the morning light.
Archways branch off everywhere, with runes twisting over them.
Laughing students cluster around a black obsidian fountain that spits out water with weird blue shimmer.
They trade looks that probably mean something. Something I don’t give a shit about.
I veer left, heading toward what I’m pretty sure is the lecture hall from yesterday.
The path winds through a covered colonnade, the ceiling arched high above and carved with images of battles I don’t recognize.
Creatures with too many limbs clash against warriors wreathed in fire, their faces frozen in silent screams.
Cheerful.
A group of girls pass me, their voices high and sharp, laughter spilling out like broken glass. One of them glances my way, her eyes flicking over me with the kind of casual dismissal that makes my fingers itch for a blade.
I smile at her. Teeth and all.
She looks away fast.
Good girl.
The lecture hall looms ahead, its entrance marked by twin statues of Sirens, their jaws open in eternal snarls. I slip through the doors and find a seat near the back. If I’m going to be stuck here, I’m at least going to have a clear exit.
The room fills quickly, bodies sliding into seats with practiced ease.
The boy from yesterday—Lord Kael of the Sable Stone or whatever—takes a spot two rows ahead, his posture perfect, his expression bored.
Spark-Hair sits near the front, her braid coiled around her wrist like a living thing.
Silver-Hair girl is here, too, perched on the edge of her seat like she’s waiting for something to happen.
The professor sweeps in a moment later. A woman this time. Tall and sharp-edged, with skin the color of burned amber and eyes that glow faintly violet. She doesn’t introduce herself, and with a wave of a hand, the floating board behind her flares to life with symbols.
“Today,” she says, her voice cutting through the murmur of conversation, “we discuss mating bonds.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
A ripple of interest runs through the room. Students sit up straight and lean closer.
I slouch lower in my chair.
The professor taps the board, and the symbols rearrange themselves into three distinct sections. “There are stages to a mating bond,” she explains. “Recognition. Claiming. Completion. Each one deepens the connection, and each one makes separation more…difficult.”
She lets the word hang in the air like a threat.
“Now, while those are the three words that sum it up, it is far more complex and a bit different for all fated pairings.” She looks around the room.
“Recognition,” she continues, pointing to the first section, “is the initial pull. A soul-deep awareness of another being. It’s instinctual, primal, and often inconvenient.
It’s been known to arrive with dreams and hallucinations of each other.
But they’re not hallucinations at all. They’re very real.
The soul splits from the physical form to hunt its other half and, during those moments, they are able to be together. ”
A few students laugh. I don’t.
“This stage can occur without warning. A scent. A glance. A brush of skin. The bond recognizes its match before the conscious mind does, and once it begins, it cannot be ignored.” Her eyes sweep the room, landing on me for just a second too long.
“Those who try to resist recognition often find themselves…distracted. Fatigued, or borderline insane.”
Distracted. Sure.
“The second stage,” she says, moving to the next section, “is the claiming. This is a conscious choice. An acknowledgment of the bond and an agreement to pursue it. It requires intent, often marked by a physical or magical act—a bite, a vow, an exchange of blood. The claiming solidifies the connection and makes it known to others.”
Her hand moves to the third section, and the symbols pulse with a faint golden light.
“Completion”—her voice drops, quiet and heavy—“is the final binding. A ritual that fuses two souls together permanently. Once completed, the bond cannot be broken. Upon death of both mates, they are reborn within each other. Life forces synchronize. Your powers will grow significantly and separation becomes unbearable. If you are lucky enough to be born of royal blood, or find yourself fated to a royal, not only will your own powers grow in strength, but a second will rise from within.”
“Their Ethos,” a girl up front shouts. “I saw it in King Knight and his new mate the day the Queen Cosima was exiled!”
“That is correct. Royals and their fated are born with their Ethos within them, but the demon within can and will only be freed by their fated.”
“Gifted who complete a bond without true compatibility,” she continues, “often go mad. The magic tears at them, seeking balance that cannot be found. It’s rare, but not unheard of, for a completed bond to end in mutual destruction.”
Fucking hell. That’s bleak even for me.
“Questions?” she asks, turning back to the room.
A hand shoots up near the front. A boy with bronze skin and sharp cheekbones. “What happens if one half of the bond dies?”
“The surviving half usually follows,” she says simply. “The bond doesn’t release easily. It clings, even in death.”
Another hand. Silver-Hair this time. “Can you break a bond before completion?”
“Theoretically, yes. But the damage is severe. The magic doesn’t let go without taking pieces of you with it. Most who attempt it are left…diminished.”
I tap my fingers against the desk, mind churning. Recognition. Claiming. Completion. Three steps to tie yourself to someone for the rest of your life, with the promise of agony if it goes sideways.
Sounds like a trap.
The professor moves on, diving into the mechanics of bond magic, the way it alters brain chemistry, the hormonal shifts, the heightened senses. I tune most of it out, already bored, but one thing sticks.
“The bond demands proximity,” she says. “Especially in the early stages. The longer the separation, the more intense the pull becomes. It’s not uncommon for newly bonded pairs to become volatile when kept apart.”
Volatile. Another fun word.
I think about the ache in my chest when Creed mentioned Legend.
The weird tightness that flared up when I thought about biting someone else in spite.
The way my skin prickled when I landed on this campus, like it was a living, breathing thing, waiting for me to arrive.
Only once I was locked away inside could I finally breathe that sigh of relief.
Fuck.
The lecture drags on for another hour, and by the time it ends, I’m ready to claw my way out of my own skin. I shove from my seat and head for the door, ignoring the curious stares that follow me.
If these people tuned into the little show when the Royal assholes announced reopening the school, they would have heard Legend’s little declaration.
Did that part get shared across the realm?
Did they hear him stake his ridiculous claim?
Do I want them to have?
I sigh, annoyed with my damn self. No. No, I don’t.
Because it’s not true.
Outside, the air is cooler, and I suck it in like I’ve been drowning.
I need to move. Need to do something that doesn’t involve sitting still and listening to people explain how screwed I might be. I don’t understand this place, and the worst part of it all?
There’s this pestering in the back of my mind, warning me that the longer I’m here, the more I might want to.
That would be a terrible fucking idea.