The first choice came sooner than expected.
It arrived disguised as urgency.
Veyla felt it the moment she woke—an imbalance in the bond, subtle but unmistakable, like a compass needle twitching off true north. The warmth beneath her ribs flickered, uncertain, searching.
Two vectors.
Two pulls.
Zora was already awake, seated at the small table near the window, tea steaming untouched.
"You're going to be needed," the witch said mildly. "Question is—by whom."
Veyla did not ask how Zora knew.
She rose, movements calm despite the tension threading through her chest. "What happened?"
"Border skirmish," Zora replied. "Minor. But loud."
Khorg.
The pull toward him sharpened instantly—hot, feral, edged with urgency. Her breath hitched as the bond surged, reacting not to distance but to *need*.
At the same time, a colder pressure tightened from the opposite direction—precise, controlled, insistent.
Vinculus.
Two needs.
Two crises.
One body.
Veyla closed her eyes briefly.
This was it.
The choice.
⸻
Khorg Ironmaw stood in the war chamber, fists planted on the map table, knuckles white.
It should have been nothing.
A clash at the edge of disputed territory. A test of boundaries. The kind of conflict he had resolved a hundred times before without hesitation.
But today—
His wolf was fraying.
The distance had stretched too long. The bond pulled at him relentlessly, heat coiling tight beneath his skin, making his thoughts jagged and impatient.
Mate needed.
Mate absent.
Every instinct screamed to move—toward her, not the border. Toward the place where the ache eased, where the hollow pressure inside his chest quieted into something bearable.
He hated it.
"This is taking too long," one of his commanders said carefully. "We need your call."
Khorg dragged a hand down his face.
His stomach churned—not from scent, not from nausea—but from restraint layered too thick, held too long.
"She won't come," he muttered.
The wolf snarled in denial.
⸻
Vinculus Noctaryn received his own report in silence.
An internal disturbance within the Crimson Court. A ritual chamber destabilized. Ancient sigils reacting unpredictably.
Anchor-adjacent activity.
Dangerous.
His blood tightened instantly, cold and sharp, the bond pulling taut like a drawn wire.
This was not instinct.
This was necessity.
If the instability escalated unchecked, it would ripple outward—into the seal, into Veyla herself.
He dismissed the messenger with a flick of his fingers.
"She will come," he said quietly.
Because she understood consequences.
⸻
Veyla stood in the corridor between paths.
One led toward the Northern wing, where urgency burned hot and raw, chaotic and emotional.
The other descended into the depths of the citadel, where control waited—cold, precise, and unforgiving.
The bond did not scream.
It *listened*.
Zora leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Whatever you choose," she said lightly, "someone's going to bleed. Not literally."
Veyla exhaled slowly.
Khorg needed her presence to stabilize instinct.
Vinculus needed her proximity to stabilize structure.
Which failure was worse?
She turned.
⸻
The descent into the Crimson depths chilled the air around her.
By the time Veyla reached the ritual antechamber, the warmth beneath her ribs had shifted—cooler, steadier, edged with tension rather than heat.
Vinculus was already there.
He felt her before he saw her.
The bond snapped into alignment, the pressure in his blood easing just enough to breathe properly again. He masked the reaction effortlessly, posture composed.
"You came," he said.
"Yes," Veyla replied.
The door sealed behind her.
The sigils flared faintly, reacting to her presence.
Vinculus stepped closer—within protocol, within reason.
The bond tightened, calm and cold.
"Your choice was… rational," he said.
Veyla met his gaze. "Necessary."
Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.
"Begin the stabilization," he ordered.
As the ritual commenced, Veyla focused on grounding herself—breath slow, awareness sharp. The seal responded, pressure adjusting, smoothing the volatile edges of the chamber.
It worked.
The instability receded.
Control reasserted itself.
Vinculus watched her closely.
"You prioritize containment," he observed quietly. "That will save lives."
Veyla did not respond.
Because somewhere far above, she felt the other pull—hot, feral, wounded.
Khorg.
The bond recoiled sharply from absence, the warmth flaring painfully now that it had chosen a side.
Her breath hitched.
Vinculus noticed immediately.
"Withdrawal," he said calmly. "Predictable."
Veyla clenched her fists. "He'll manage."
Vinculus tilted his head. "Will he?"
⸻
Khorg did not manage.
The border skirmish ended quickly—but the damage had already been done.
The moment the threat passed, the bond snapped back violently, the absence crashing into him like a wave. His knees buckled, stomach twisting sharply as the hollow ache detonated into something close to panic.
Mate chose elsewhere.
The wolf howled.
Khorg braced himself against the stone wall, breath ragged, vision blurring at the edges.
Not pain.
Loss.
He had been *passed over*.
⸻
Veyla felt it.
The delayed impact slammed into her chest, sharp and brutal. The warmth surged erratically, no longer controlled, reacting to guilt and urgency all at once.
She staggered, catching herself against the table.
Zora appeared in the doorway, eyes sharp.
"There it is," the witch murmured. "The price."
Vinculus frowned. "This reaction is excessive."
"No," Zora replied. "It's honest."
Veyla forced herself upright, heart pounding.
"I made the right choice," she said, more to herself than to anyone else.
Zora studied her closely. "You made *a* choice."
The bond pulsed, unsettled.
Somewhere between control and instinct, something learned.
And it was not satisfied.
As the chamber quieted and the crisis passed, three truths settled heavily into place:
Khorg learned what it meant to be left behind.
Vinculus learned that necessity bred loyalty—briefly.
And Veyla learned that choosing stability did not prevent damage.
It merely decided who paid first.