The halls of House Nightshade weren't built to welcome.
They were built to test.
The further Kael walked into the tower that bore his family's crest, the colder the magic became. Not in temperature—but in intent. Spells hummed behind the walls, tracking his steps, analyzing his resonance, cross-referencing his current power level against his registered potential.
It used to make him feel safe.
Now it made him feel like prey.
He passed the Watchfire Hall, where portraits of past Nightshade heirs lined the curved walls—faces painted in grayscale, eyes cast in shadow. He'd walked this way a hundred times. But now, the bond pulsed faintly with each step, as if reminding him that he no longer walked alone.
Even without her near, he felt Lira.
Her fear.
Her anger.
Her voice, echoing in his memory.
"Don't do it."
He hadn't answered her then.
He didn't know how.
But every step forward tasted like betrayal.
The council chamber of House Nightshade was a cathedral of silence.
Seven elders sat in a half-circle, high-backed chairs arranged like teeth around the black obsidian floor. The light above was cold—no torches, just suspended spelllight, casting long shadows that touched nothing.
Kael didn't bow when he entered.
He didn't have to.
He was their heir.
Their weapon.
And now, their liability.
His uncle, Elder Calren, stood at the center.
He wore full ceremonial black, his crest shimmering faintly against his chest. Power radiated off him in sharp waves—controlled, but dangerous.
"You returned alone," Calren said.
Kael said nothing.
"I thought she'd insist on following you."
"She tried."
"And you allowed her to live?"
Kael's jaw tensed. "She's bonded."
"She's wrong."
Calren stepped forward.
"This bond is an infection. And you, Kael, are the carrier."
Kael didn't flinch. "Then why summon me?"
"To remind you who you belong to," Calren said.
Then—softer—"You still carry our blood. You still bear our crest. That girl is nothing but a spark from a dead fire."
Kael's fingers curled into fists.
"She carries the Seventh."
"She carries danger."
"She carries me."
The silence that followed that sentence was heavy.
Final.
Unforgivable.
Calren stepped back.
He gestured to one of the elders at his left—Elder Vasha, the strategist.
She rose slowly, holding a silver blade in her hand.
It wasn't a weapon.
It was a ritual tool.
Kael knew what it meant.
"You're going to try to cut the bond again," he said.
Vasha nodded. "Without her present. The girl's resonance is reactive. You've become the anchor."
"You'll kill me."
"If the academy sees you die protecting a forged-blood infiltrator, they'll turn on her before the week's end."
Kael smiled bitterly.
"Always the plan," he said.
Calren's eyes glittered. "You forced our hand. You chose her."
Kael looked down at his chest.
The Mark pulsed, faint but clear—twelve lines, fused and perfect.
And he thought of her.
Of Lira.
Of how she walked into danger without hesitation.
Of how her magic flared wild and beautiful and true.
He stepped forward.
And said, clearly:
"I still do."
The pain was instant.
The blade never touched his skin.
It didn't need to.
The moment the ritual began—ancient words spoken in the Nightshade tongue, power laced into every syllable—the bond screamed through his bones. The Mark lit up so violently that the entire chamber pulsed with gold light.
Elders stumbled back.
Vasha dropped the blade.
Calren shouted a counterspell.
But the bond didn't stop.
It retaliated.
A blast of power exploded from Kael's body, slamming into the chamber walls, cracking three seats and shattering a protection glyph embedded in the ceiling.
And across the academy—
Lira fell to her knees.
The Mark on her chest erupted in heat.
The pain wasn't sharp.
It was consuming.
Like someone had reached into her chest and ripped the bond taut.
She gasped, clutching the center of her shirt, collapsing into the grass in the south courtyard. Her vision blurred, ears ringing.
She heard his voice—not spoken, but felt.
I chose you.
She tried to stand.
Failed.
The Mark burned too hot.
Back in the chamber, Kael collapsed.
Smoke curled from his fingertips.
He didn't cry out.
Didn't beg.
Didn't break.
But he bled—not physically, but through the bond. Magic poured out of him in thick, silver waves, curling around his body like living shadow.
The elders stared in silence.
Calren's face was pale.
"You've become something else," he whispered.
Kael lifted his head slowly.
Eyes glowing silver.
The Mark shining through his skin.
"I became hers," he said.
They didn't try again.
They didn't speak.
They didn't stop him when he left.
Lira was waiting in the dorm when he returned.
She stood slowly as he stepped through the door, his coat burned, blood trailing from one wrist, magic clinging to him like a second skin.
"You idiot," she whispered.
Kael dropped to his knees.
"I couldn't let them erase you."
She caught him before he hit the floor, arms around his shoulders, pressing her forehead to his as the bond pulsed between them, alive and furious and whole.
"You should've let me come," she said.
"I couldn't risk it."
"You don't get to make that decision for me."
Kael's voice cracked.
"I already did."