EVER BOUND

EIGHTEEN

The snow fell heavier that night, painting the mountainside in silence. Silas moved like a shadow through the forest, the weight of his hunger gnawing deeper than usual. He hadn't fed in days—not out of lack, but choice. A slow, bitter repentance for the life he had taken in a rage the week before. The girl had begged. He hadn't listened.

The guilt still clung to his ribs like frost.

That's when he smelled the blood.

Sharp. Fresh. Human.

He followed the trail until he found him—curled in the hollow of a tree, gasping in short, wet breaths. A boy. Or a man just barely grown. Twenty, perhaps. Wounds torn deep across his chest and leg. The wolves had nearly finished him.

But he was still alive.

And he looked up.

Even now, Silas remembered those eyes — amber-brown, glassy with pain, but unafraid. "If you're here to kill me," the boy rasped, "then do it quick."

Silas crouched before him. "You don't fear death?"

"I fear dying slow." A strained breath. "But I'd rather live."

Silas studied him. There was no desperation in the voice, only clarity. Even dying, the boy had dignity.

"What is your name?" Silas asked.

"Malric."

A long pause followed, as if the wind itself waited for Silas's decision.

He offered a single hand. "Then rise, Malric. I can give you life—stronger than the one you're losing. But it comes with hunger. And you will never be the same."

Malric looked at the hand. Looked at the crimson-eyed man crouched before him, cloaked in shadow and snow. And he smiled — just slightly.

"Then I'll never be weak again."

~*~

The wind howled against the aging stone of the manor. Silas stood before the hearth in the great hall, hands clasped behind his back, spine rigid as he watched the flames dance. The silence behind him shifted.

A slow, deliberate clap echoed in the room.

"You always did enjoy theatrics," came the voice—low, silk-thick, and worn at the edges like something once sharp, now rotten beneath polish.

Silas turned, and there he was.

Malric.

Not the young, eager soldier Silas had once embraced into eternity. Not the loyal firstborn who would have died for him. No—this was a thing hollowed by time.

His skin had the hue of old wax, pallid and stretched tight across sharp cheekbones. Veins too dark for blood spidered across his neck like runes carved from within. His once golden hair was now pitch black, hanging in strands to his collarbone, and his eyes—Silas stepped closer—were no longer eyes at all, but pits of ink. Bottomless.

"...You should be dead," Silas said, voice quiet. Not disbelief. Disgust.

"I was," Malric replied, smiling faintly. "But death is such a... minor inconvenience when you no longer rely on borrowed blood."

"You're not one of us anymore," Silas said.

"No," Malric agreed. "I'm something... more. Something you refused to become."

There was a beat of silence. The fire cracked behind them, casting warped shadows against the far wall.

"You used dark magic," Silas said. "It's the only way."

Malric's smile widened. "Centuries of devotion, and that's all I get? No 'Welcome back, old friend'? No 'How did you survive the ritual meant to erase us all'?"

Silas's jaw clenched. "Because I watched you die, Malric. I felt the bond sever."

"You felt what I let you feel," he said coolly. "I needed to be dead to you. And in a way, I was. The boy you knew died that night. What rose from his ashes is... evolution."

Silas took a step forward. "And you've been waiting 600 years to finish what the ritual started."

Malric's expression sobered. "Not finish. Perfect it. The ritual was never about control—it was about cleansing. She wasn't supposed to come back, Silas. You weren't supposed to want her back."

"Touch her," Silas warned, voice steel, "and I will end whatever twisted version of you still walks in that skin."

"Oh, Silas..." Malric's tone dropped to a whisper. "You're too late. I don't want her flesh. I want her soul. It's the last piece I need."

Silas lunged—but Malric vanished in a swirl of cold wind and ash before his fingers could even graze him.

From the rafters, his voice lingered, ghostlike.

"Tell your goddess to run. Or tell her to stand. Either way, this time, she burns."

Silas didn't move. "You want her soul. Why?"

Malric stepped forward, the fire casting hollow light across his ruined face. "Because she is the key."

"To what?"

"To unmaking us," Malric said, tone almost reverent. "You think your bond with her is sacred. You think it's prophecy. But it's curse, Silas. She is the beginning and the end of our kind."

Silas narrowed his eyes. "What are you saying?"

Malric laughed once—dry, bitter. "You truly don't remember. You were always too enamored with her to see the truth."

He circled the room slowly, running a pale fingertip along the carved mantle. "The night she died the first time... the skies split. The earth cracked. It wasn't grief. It was consequence. Her death nearly unraveled us all."

Silas's voice was hoarse. "You think she has the power to destroy our bloodline."

"I know she does," Malric snapped. "She's not just reborn. She's ascending. Every lifetime she gets stronger. She remembers. Even if she doesn't yet, her soul does. And once it awakens fully, she will undo everything—every ritual, every binding, every covenant made in blood."

Silas stepped forward now, voice quiet and dangerous. "So you intend to stop her before she remembers."

Malric turned, eyes glittering like oil on water. "I intend to consume her, Silas. Her power. Her memories. Her lineage. Once I complete the ritual, I'll be beyond old blood, beyond cursed magic. A new god for a new world."

"You're dying," Silas said suddenly, eyes narrowing. "The magic is eating you alive. That's why you've come now."

Malric's expression cracked for a split second. The edges of his mouth trembled.

"Yes," he said finally. "But I won't die begging. I'll die becoming. And she... she will be the final piece."

Silas drew closer, barely a foot between them now.

"You always were a coward. Even in life."

Malric tilted his head. "And you, Silas, were always ruled by your heart. It will be the end of you."

~*~

The corridor outside his room was dark, the kind of dark that seeped into bone. Silas didn't remember leaving the door cracked, yet the warm flicker of lamplight licked the edges of the hallway stone. He paused. Listened.

She was inside.

He stepped in silently. She didn't look up.

Thea sat on the floor near the bed, her legs tucked beneath her, surrounded by a half-moon of worn leather journals—some water-damaged, some meticulously kept. One was open on her lap, the edges soft and curling from use. Her eyes flicked back and forth across the page, brow furrowed.

He closed the door gently behind him.

"I thought you were resting," he said.

"I was," she murmured. "Then I remembered I used to write everything down."

She glanced at him now, not startled but sharp-eyed. "I thought maybe there was something in here I left for myself—some kind of clue. A ritual. A name. A way to end this curse for good."

Silas watched her from the doorway, silent. The fire behind her painted her curls in deep reds and golds. Her resolve was different now—not desperate, but deliberate.

She tilted her head, studying him. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

He crossed the room, but didn't sit. "Not a ghost," he said. "Just a man I once thought was long dead."

"The one outside," she said softly. "I heard you speaking."

Silas's jaw tightened. "He was the first I turned. His name is Malric."

Thea set the journal down. "He didn't sound like one of your kind."

"He's not," Silas admitted. "Not anymore."

Something flickered in her gaze. "What is he?"

"Something... else," Silas said, and it was the first time in a long time he sounded unsure. "He's been alive for nine centuries, but he's not bound to blood like we are. He used dark magic—something old. Feral. It's twisted him."

Thea pushed the journals aside and stood. "And he came for me."

Silas didn't respond.

She stepped closer. "You're not answering."

He met her gaze. "Yes. He came for you."

"Why?"

"Because your power is waking up," he said tightly. "Because you're not bound to anything yet. And because he thinks he can use you."

Thea's expression hardened, her voice low and calm. "And can he?"

Silas's eyes burned with something darker than rage. "Not while I still draw breath."

They stood close now, the room thick with candlelight and secrets.

Thea looked down at the journal in her hand. "Then we better figure out how to lift this curse. Because something tells me Malric isn't the only one who'll come looking."

Thea looked back down at the open journal in her hand, thumb brushing over a line written in her own looping script—furious, almost manic. She read it again. Then again. Each time it felt like someone else's thoughts wearing her skin.

"I don't feel the same way she did," she said finally.

Silas watched her carefully, but didn't speak.

She closed the journal gently and placed it on the stack. "Even reading all of this, even knowing what you did—what I thought you did—it doesn't feel like mine. I remember being angry. Hurt. But it's like... someone else's storm."

Her eyes flicked to his. "Is that normal?"

He stepped closer, voice quiet. "That version of you was in love. And love..."

He stopped, jaw flexing.

Thea raised a brow. "Go on."

Silas's mouth curved into something like a sad smile. "Love makes you do crazy things," he said. "Makes pain sharper. Betrayal louder. The whole world becomes unrecognizable because nothing makes sense when the person you'd burn it all down for stops choosing you."

His eyes softened, darker now with memory. "You weren't just angry, Thea. You were shattered. And that rage? It was grief's disguise."

Thea didn't respond at first. Just looked at him—really looked at him—like she was trying to see what she once must have seen so clearly.

Then softly: "But I'm not her."

"No," he agreed. "You're not."

"And you're not him either."

Something in Silas's gaze flickered. Pain, maybe. Maybe relief. Maybe both.

They stood there in the quiet, the heat of the fire catching between them like a breath held too long.

Thea's voice was soft but clear. "Then remind me."

Silas's brows drew together, puzzled. "Remind you?"

She stood, slow and deliberate, the firelight catching the edges of her curls. "You said that version of me was in love. That love made her crazy. Maybe if I remember what it felt like, everything else will come back."

Her eyes met his—steady, sure, aching. "Maybe you can help me remember."

It hit him like a blow. The idea. The offer.

Silas blinked, almost dumbfounded. "You're not serious."

Thea stepped closer, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "Why not? It wouldn't hurt to try."

He turned away, hands curling into fists at his sides. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because when I take you," he said, voice rough, "it won't be like this. Not as some experiment. Not as a test. It will be after the curse is lifted, when you're whole. When you remember what we were without having to be reminded through touch."

Thea's breath caught. Not from shame, not from rejection—but because of the weight in his words. His restraint. His vow.

He turned back to her, slower this time, his eyes darker than she remembered. Older. "You're not some spell to unravel, Thea. You're not a riddle I want to solve with desperation. You're mine... or you're not. But I won't claim your body just to chase a memory."

A beat passed between them. Her chest rose and fell, the silence suddenly louder than before.

She nodded once—slowly—then stepped back, as if the pull between them was too hot to hold.

"Okay," she said softly. "Okay."

And yet neither of them moved.

A long silence passed, the kind that presses against the ribs and fills the lungs with something unspoken.

Thea lowered her gaze, her hands wrapping around the journal once more as if it might anchor her. "You always say the right thing," she murmured.

Silas didn't respond. He was still watching her—still warring with himself.

But the heat between them was already fading, replaced by something cooler, more solemn.

She walked past him, slow and sure, pausing in the doorway. "If you ever change your mind..." she began, then smiled faintly. "Don't."

Silas blinked, but she was already gone—leaving only the echo of her presence and the scent of lavender and old paper behind.

He stood there for a long moment, jaw tight, breath shallow, until finally—finally—he looked up at the ceiling and whispered to the empty room, "What are you doing to me, Thea..."

Outside, the wind shifted.

And somewhere, far off in the shadows, Malric was watching.