She wakes to silence.
Not the gentle kind, but the kind that presses against the skull, heavy and watchful—like the world itself is holding its breath.
The battleground was not a single arena, but a territory—and they had already crossed its outer perimeter.
For a moment, she doesn't know where she is.
Stone beneath her palms. Cold. Uneven. The faint smell of ash and damp earth clinging to the air. Her head throbs, memories slow to return—running, shouting, the sudden surge of power that was never meant to surface.
And then—
Him.
The bond tightens.
Not painfully. Not violently.
Just enough to remind her that escape is an illusion.
She exhales shakily and pushes herself upright.
He stands a few steps away, back turned, chains hanging loose from his wrists like remnants of a past that refuses to stay buried. The dim light reveals the sharp lines of his figure—too still, too controlled, as if movement itself is a calculated decision.
"You're awake," he says, without turning.
His voice is calm.
That terrifies her more than anger ever could.
"What… happened?" she asks.
There is a pause. A fraction too long.
"You lost consciousness," he replies. "The curse reacted."
The curse.
Her fingers curl into the fabric of her dress. "Reacted how?"
This time, he turns.
The look in his eyes stops her breath.
Not rage.
Not contempt.
Something darker.
Something… restrained.
"You reached into it," he says quietly. "Deeper than before."
Her chest tightens. "I didn't mean to."
"I know."
The words come too fast—too certain.
She swallows. "Then why does it feel like I did something wrong?"
Because the bond shifts.
Subtle. Almost imperceptible.
But she feels it—like a door creaking open somewhere inside him, revealing something ancient and violent beneath layers of iron restraint.
He steps closer.
Instinctively, she doesn't move.
"You didn't do anything wrong," he says. "You did something dangerous."
Her pulse quickens. "To who?"
His gaze lowers to her, sharp and unyielding.
"To you."
The silence stretches between them.
She hugs her arms around herself. "You felt it too, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"What did you feel?"
He doesn't answer immediately.
Instead, he looks away—as if the stone wall suddenly holds answers he refuses to give her.
"I felt," he says at last, "what I was created to be."
Her breath catches.
The bond trembles.
She doesn't know why—but the weight of those words settles deep in her chest, heavy with implications she isn't ready to face.
"What were you created to be?" she asks softly.
For a moment, she thinks he won't answer.
Then—
"A weapon."
The word is flat. Final.
She stares at him.
Not because she's surprised.
But because the bond confirms it.
Images bleed through—too fast, too fragmented to fully grasp. Cities burning. Screams swallowed by light. Figures kneeling in terror and worship alike.
And him—
Standing at the center of it all.
Untouched.
Unquestioned.
Unstoppable.
She gasps and stumbles back, hands flying to her chest as the visions shatter.
He reacts instantly.
Grabs her wrist.
Grounds her.
"Don't," he snaps. "Don't look there."
Her breathing turns uneven. "You—you showed me."
"I didn't," he corrects sharply. "You pulled."
The accusation isn't cruel.
It's afraid.
That realization sends a chill through her veins.
"I'm sorry," she whispers.
His grip loosens.
Slowly, he releases her.
"I was worshipped," he says, voice lower now. "And feared. Entire civilizations were built around containing what I could do—or directing it."
Her throat feels tight. "And now?"
"Now I am monitored," he replies. "Restricted. Bound by a system that ensures I never become that again."
She looks at the chains.
They don't look ceremonial.
They look functional.
"And me?" she asks.
He meets her gaze.
The air between them feels sharp enough to cut.
"You are the flaw," he says. "The variable they didn't anticipate."
Her heart stutters.
"That's not comforting."
"It isn't meant to be."
She forces herself to meet his eyes. "Then why haven't they separated us?"
A shadow crosses his expression.
"Because the curse doesn't just bind," he says. "It evaluates."
Her blood runs cold.
"Evaluates what?"
"Whether you weaken me," he answers. "Or make me dangerous again."
The bond pulses.
Once.
Twice.
Like something listening.
She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly feeling very small in a world that seems determined to crush anomalies.
"If I make you dangerous…" she begins.
He steps closer again—slow, deliberate.
"Then they will destroy you first," he says.
Her voice barely works. "And you?"
His expression hardens.
"Then they will finally have a reason to erase what remains of me."
She looks at him—truly looks at him.
Not as a weapon.
Not as a monster.
But as something trapped inside a shape the world refuses to forgive.
"I don't want to be your weakness," she says quietly.
His eyes darken.
"Then don't be," he replies. "Because if you are—"
He stops himself.
The bond tightens.
"…I won't survive losing you," he finishes, voice barely above a whisper.
Her breath catches.
Not because of the words.
But because the curse reacts.
Satisfied.
Observant.
As if it has just learned something new.
And far too valuable to forget.