Ayra's hands trembled as she tested the glow of the symbols etched into the stone beneath her. They weren't ordinary markings—they pulsed, alive, in rhythm with her heartbeat, tight and insistent. Every movement she made sent sharp pain through her chest, and with it came something else: awareness, unrelenting, of Prince Alric's presence, like he was pressing against her ribs from the inside. He said nothing at first, simply watched her, dark eyes measuring every twitch of muscle, every shallow, panicked breath.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to pull herself free, to wrench her hands from the symbols and bolt—but the magic would not allow it. And the truth hit her like a cold slap: she had never felt so utterly powerless in her life.
"Stand still," Alric said, voice low, firm, carrying weight without menace. Every word pressed into the chamber like a command she could not ignore. "The bond… it reacts to movement, to emotion. If you struggle, we both suffer."
Ayra's chest heaved, breaths shallow and fast. "You… what do you mean? Reacts to—" Her words faltered, caught in the rush of sensation and pain. She had survived hunger, survived beatings, survived loss and betrayal—but this… this was a force she could not fight with strength alone.
He leaned slightly forward, restrained by the glowing magic, but his presence was inescapable. "You feel me. I feel you. That is the bond. It has chosen us." His words were clipped, measured, not cruel but somehow heavy with authority, with experience earned in years of control, discipline, and consequence.
Ayra shook her head, the motion almost instinctively trying to break the connection. "Why me? I'm nobody. You're… you're the prince. The enemy. This makes no sense."
Alric's eyes softened, just for a flicker, though his jaw remained tight. "It is not meant to make sense," he said, voice low.
She wanted to hate him. She needed to. Every instinct in her screamed that he, this man, was responsible for ruin, for bloodshed, for the destruction of lives—hers included. And yet, every attempt to push the thought away was met with the bond's reminder, pressing closer, tethering her in ways she could not escape, could not ignore.
The room suddenly felt smaller. The air thickened, charged with the hum of magic, heavy and tangible. Her stomach twisted—not just from fear, but from the pull of something deeper, something harder to name.
"Listen to me," Alric said quietly, though it carried authority even in softness. "We need to understand this bond before it destroys us—or anyone else."
Ayra's hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms. "Destroy us?" she asked, voice shaking. "Do you know what's happening to me? My chest… it burns. My head feels like it's splitting… I can't breathe!"
Alric's gaze met hers, unwavering, steady as stone. "Then stay calm. Focus. Panic will only make it worse."
She wanted to argue. To scream at the unfairness of it all. But the truth was undeniable: he was right. The pain eased slightly when she stopped thrashing, when she forced herself to stand straight, shoulders back, chin high. And even then, she could feel the bond responding, pulsing to the rhythm of her heartbeat, syncing with each shaky inhale and exhale.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the low hum of magic beneath her feet and the distant sounds of the village burning beyond the chamber walls. Neither of them moved closer, yet neither could move away. Distance was impossible. Escape was impossible.
After a long pause, she spoke, quieter now, almost a whisper: "If this bond… if it's real… what does it mean for me? For you?"
Alric's eyes flickered toward hers, and for the first time, she glimpsed the weight beneath the prince's armor. The crown, the discipline, the battles fought behind closed doors—all of it was there in his gaze. "It means," he said slowly, deliberately, "that our fates are tied together. We cannot survive apart, and we cannot ignore one another. What the bond wants… is beyond our choice."
Her chest tightened. She hated that she could not look away. Hated that the words resonated through her like some unspoken truth buried in her bones. She wanted to scream, to rail at the unfairness of it all—but instead, her voice came out soft, cautious: "Then… what do we do?"
Alric's jaw tightened, his tone dropping to a low murmur, deliberate and coldly protective. "We survive. We learn. And we find out who—or what—wants this to happen. I will not let anyone use this bond against either of us."
Ayra blinked. His words were firm, protective, layered with something she could not name. Anger? Fear? Desire? Something that twisted her stomach in a way that had nothing to do with hunger or pain, something far more dangerous, far more intimate.
She clenched her fists, forcing herself to focus. "Fine," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "Then we survive. Together."
Alric's eyes narrowed, unreadable, sharp. "Do not mistake this for trust," he warned. "The moment I see weakness, I will act. This bond does not forgive foolishness."
A bitter laugh wanted to escape her, sharp and angry, but it caught in her throat. Instead, she nodded to herself, grounding herself against the pull of panic and the bond. She had survived worse. She could survive this, if she kept her mind steady—and her heart… contained.
The floor trembled beneath them. The glow of the symbols pulsed suddenly brighter, like the magic was reacting to some unseen presence. Ayra froze. Alric's eyes followed hers, alert, calculating.
"Someone or something is coming," he said quietly. "And we need to be ready."
Her throat went dry. The bond pressed tighter across her chest, a reminder she was no longer alone, a tether she could not cut. The hum of power beneath her feet was almost deafening, echoing through her bones.
The war had reached them. Not just the war beyond the walls—but a personal war. A hunt. A tethered hunt. And the bond had only just begun.
Every heartbeat she drew, every small movement, every shallow breath, was mirrored in him. Awareness, pain, heat, tension—each element magnified, amplified by the relentless insistence of the magic. She stumbled slightly, and Alric's hand shot out instinctively, gripping hers, grounding her. The jolt through her chest was almost unbearable, yet impossibly intimate.
"You feel that?" he whispered. Not a question. A statement.
"Yes," she breathed, voice trembling. "It's alive. Too alive."
He did not respond immediately. His hand lingered, holding hers with just enough pressure to steady her, letting the bond flare, reminding her that no matter what walls or distance they tried to place, the connection would insist, claim, demand.
Ayra's knees shook. Her chest burned. Every nerve screamed. Panic rose like a tide, and she could not escape it. But the bond… relentless, alive, insistent, tethered them both. And even in the panic, even in the fire of pain and awareness, she understood something with terrifying clarity: she could not escape him.
Not now. Not ever.