Chapter 12 #2
Right on his stupid. Perfect. Shiny. Sword. And dented it. Maxx burst out laughing and I grinned wildly. Maybe I liked him after all.
“Fighting dirty already, Scar-bearer?” Eryndor purred.
I lunged toward him, just to scare him a bit, but then I threw myself into a safety roll, shoulders making contact on the hard-packed ground, and passed right over my throwing star I'd hit his sword with—it magnetized back to the band on my forearm.
I popped up right in front of him and landed a left hook. His jaw cracked. The rebels went wild with cheers and Eryndor exhaled slowly out his nose as if he were trying to gain patience.
“I wasn’t aware there was another way to fight,” I retorted.
We circled each other—two predators measuring the distance between patience and violence.
"It shows." His gaze tracked down my stance—the loose grip, the weight on my back foot, the shoulder angled to hide my throwing hand. Reading me like a battle map. "Scrappy. Unrefined. Effective, I'm sure, against lesser opponents."
He moved then—not a strike, but a feint.
He dipped his shoulder, baiting me to block high.
I fell for it. My guard was still rising when his sword found the inside of my wrist. A precise, vibrating shock to the nerve cluster on my forearm.
My fingers went numb instantly. My dagger clattered to the dirt.
He stepped back, waiting. Let me pick it up.
"Your grip is too tight," he noted. "Tension breaks.
Fluidity survives." I snatched my blade from the ground, humiliated heat flushing my neck. I shook the feeling back into my hand.
"And yet." I matched his pace, letting my dagger catch the torchlight. "You're the one who lost me in those tunnels."
His nostrils flared.
"I let you go."
“Is that what you’re calling it?” I stepped closer, a smile blooming razor-sharp. “Because to me, it looked like you hesitated.” I paused to hold his gaze. “Soldier,” I taunted.
He took the bait and lunged. I sidestepped, letting his momentum carry him past, and brought my blade down toward his exposed flank. He spun, caught it, shoved me back. We traded blows—high, low, a thrust I barely deflected—the rhythm brutal and instinctive.
His eyes darkened as he closed the distance. "You fight like someone who learned in alleys."
"And you fight like someone who learned in a cage." I tilted my head, watching the words land. "All that perfect form. All that polish. Tell me, Crownforged—when's the last time you won a fight that wasn't already decided for you?"
His restraint slipped.
He came at me fast—faster than before. No more testing.
No more measure. His sword was a blur of controlled fury and I scrambled to meet it, catching one strike, two, a third that nearly tore the sword from my grip.
I swung wild, aiming for his temple. He ducked under it, hooked his ankle behind mine, and suddenly the world tilted.
My back hit the ground. I gasped, but cold steel was already there—a sharp line against my pulse.
He hovered over me, a trap of heat and tension.
"Careful," he murmured. "You might get the answer."
My breath hitched and his eyes dilated. The cavern had gone silent—or maybe the roaring in my ears had swallowed everything else. His breath came warm against my lips, uneven in a way his fighting hadn't been.
"Promises, promises." My voice dipped. "You talk like a male who thinks holding me down is the same as winning."
"And you talk like a female who's never been caught."
"I've been caught," I purred. "I just don't stay that way."
I hooked my heel behind his knee and torqued my hips, throwing my weight into the rotation.
His balance broke—a flash of surprise crossed his face—and then we were rolling, dirt and limbs and steel until I came out on top, thighs pinned on either side of his hips, my blade pressed to the hollow of his throat.
His throat bobbed against the edge. "No," he said. "I don't imagine you do."
I should’ve moved. I should’ve taken the win and walked away. But I didn't. Beneath the adrenaline and the metallic tang of blood, a different rhythm took over—a pull my body recognized before my brain could name it.
His chest rose against mine, his breath catching as he fought for control. I felt his hips shift under me, the sudden flex of his muscle against my own.
Move, Amaria.
I didn't.
A spark flared under my collarbone. Our marks were inches apart.
Then a pull. Oscillating between pleasure and pain.
Deep and sudden, like a hook behind my collarbone yanking toward him.
They weren't asking permission. They lunged—both of them, reaching through my skin.
Silver tendrils spilled from my Luminar toward his Soulbinder, and I couldn't—wouldn't—stop them.
My body had surrendered before my mind could vote.
No. No, no, no. Pull back. Cage it. Cage it now.
It didn't listen. It never listened when it came to him.
Eryndor's breath held. His eyes went wide.
Beneath me, through the thin fabric of his shirt, his Soulbinder mark blazed to life—a crimson glow threaded with silver, throbbing in time with mine.
I felt it sync—his mark to mine, beat for beat, like two drums finding the same rhythm without meaning to.
Something primordial and marrow-deep split open between us.
A recognition that didn't bother knocking—just walked right in and said there you are.
And I wanted to scream because I didn't ask for this.
Didn't consent to whatever was crawling up through my chest with his name on it.
And the worst part was the way my body stopped hurting the second his mark answered mine.
Like the ache had been waiting for him to release.
I hated him for that. For making the pain stop without asking if I wanted to keep it.
And then I saw it.
A filament. Thin as spider silk, luminous as a dying star. It snapped taut between us—between my breast and his—a thread of pure energy that keened with a sound I felt more than heard. Red and silver wound together, suspended in the air for one impossible heartbeat.
It hung between us like a dare. Like a vow the gods had no business offering.
I couldn't look away. The thread whined. A vibration I felt in my spine, in my core, in the roots of my hair. They were braided so deep I couldn't tell where his ended and mine began.
His eyes were unguarded for the first time since I'd met him—and his hands stilled on my hips. He remained fixed. He was a warrior gripped by a promise he should have been running from.
The cavern went dead silent.
And then a crack split the air.
The Marks surged—straining to merge and destroy each other. Light blazed between us, scouring the shadows from the cavern walls.
As the flare guttered, a secondary corruption emerged. Onyx-black ink rippled on his skin. His face wrenched. That armor of control vanished in a spasm of agony. Before I could even gasp, his hands slammed into my shoulders and shoved.
I hit the ground hard, breath punched from my lungs.
When I looked up, the mask was back—smooth, arctic, as if the pain had never existed.
I sat in the dirt, both hands flat against my sternum where my Marks hammered like they were trying to crack through bone. My nerves misfired, a frantic ticking under the skin of my palms.
From the nothing where the thread had been. It had snapped when he shoved me and the place it anchored turned into a vacant vacuum.
I wanted to be furious. I was furious.
But my hands kept fumbling over my heart like they were looking for something that wasn't there anymore. I dug them into the dirt and held them there.
Serenya was there in an instant, knees hit the ground beside me, arms pulling me close. "Amaria—are you alright? Talk to me. What was that?"
I couldn't answer. The Uncrowned had erupted into chaos—whispers layering over whispers, intense gestures, wide eyes. I heard fragments: ...the thread... ...never seen... ...bound?...
I peered through the commotion.
Eryndor stood at the edge of the hall now, beside Kaelen—rigid and controlled.
He stared at me like I'd just run him through.
Brannick approached Kaelen. "Well?" he demanded. "Did you see anything?"
Kaelen studied Eryndor—catching on the place where I’d seen that horrible black light pulse. His expression was unreadable.
"Nothing conclusive. Their Marks reacting to one another at the end was... unexpected. It complicated the assessment," he said. "He either has better control than any Crown asset I've ever seen, or he's telling the truth." He sighed. "We'll find out which soon enough."
He turned away, dismissing them both.
But I caught the way Eryndor's hand shook—just once—before he tucked it behind his back. The way he breathed through his nose, measured and strained, like someone trying not to scream.
Maxx sauntered over to me and offered me a hand up, I absentmindedly took it. He let out a whistle and nudged me. "So. Sparring. That's what we're calling that?"
I didn't answer. I could feel the ghost of that thread snapping taut, the pull at my core constantly wanting him. And his face—that wreck of agony before the mask slammed back down.
What was that black pulse under his shirt? Had I done that to him? Had my ShadowMark hurt him?
I didn't have an answer. I wasn't sure I wanted one.