EVER BOUND

THREE

Silas

The fog was still thick when he stepped outside.

The early morning held its breath. The clouds hadn't broken since nightfall, hanging low and swollen above the valley. Rain clung to the trees like dew on spider silk, and the land stretched quiet in every direction—quiet, but not empty.

Silas moved down the porch steps and onto the damp earth, his bare feet whispering across the moss-soft ground. Behind him, the warm flicker of firelight licked the windows of the small cottage. Inside, Thea hovered just beyond the glass, her hand braced on the frame, her expression tight with unease.

He gave her a single look—firm and final—and turned away.

They were already here.

Three shadows moved at the edge of the treeline, shifting just beyond where human eyes might see. But Silas wasn't human. He felt them in his blood, in the tremor of air disturbed by their approach. Old connections vibrated faintly between them, twisted now with betrayal.

Micah stepped into view first. Broad-shouldered and lean, his cloak soaked from the rain, face paler than Silas remembered. Beside him came Brynne, sharp as a hawk with eyes to match. And between them—the third. A younger one. Newer. A recent creation, face gaunt and wild, his gaze already gone hollow with bloodlust.

Fools, Silas thought. They should have known better.

"We warned you," Micah said, rain clinging to his voice.

Silas didn't move. "And I asked for time."

"You didn't mean it," Brynne spat. "You never do."

"I do now."

Micah's mouth curled into something between a snarl and a grin. "You always said she'd be the end of us."

"She nearly was," Brynne added. "And now she's back. You think you can stop what she is?"

"She's different this time."

"Different?" Micah laughed darkly. "You said that in 1412. You said it in 1609. You said it in Boston—"

"I know what I said." Silas's voice sharpened like drawn steel.

The young one raised his weapon from beneath his cloak—a crossbow forged of blackened iron, etched with symbols Silas hadn't seen in nearly a thousand years.

The breath in his chest froze.

"You made that," he said, his voice quiet.

Micah gave a small nod. "With help. From those who remember the old tongue. Those who still believe she can end everything."

The crossbow fired.

Silas moved—but not fast enough.

The bolt struck low beneath his ribs, just left of his spine. It didn't pierce cleanly. It sank, barbed and burning. Instantly his limbs seized with the cold bite of curse-metal. Runes along the shaft glowed faintly, reacting to his blood.

He dropped to one knee, air tearing from his lungs.

The world tipped sideways. The sky twisted. Pain screamed through every nerve.

Behind him, the cottage door slammed open.

"Thea—no!" he growled through clenched teeth.

But she was already moving.

Her boots struck the earth hard, soaked instantly in wet soil and broken leaves. Her eyes were wide, horrified—drawn not just to him, but to the thing inside him. The dark thing. The thing she didn't have a name for.

He reached out a hand.

"Back inside," he choked.

She didn't listen.

Micah turned to her with a sneer. "There she is."

The rogue c****d the crossbow again.

And then the air shifted.

Thea froze—then straightened slowly.

The clouds above them churned like boiling water. The grass flattened outward from her feet in a perfect circle. Wind whipped through the clearing, not in gusts, but in spirals, lifting her hair, dragging at her sweater like invisible hands.

Silas's eyes went wide. He knew this feeling.

"No," he whispered. "Not here—"

Thea's head tilted back. Her eyes rolled white. Then black.

Her fingertips blackened, veins branching like lightning beneath the surface of her skin. Blood bloomed beneath her nose. A second later, it dripped from her chin.

The earth groaned. The trees bent.

The rogue screamed.

He didn't fall.

He disintegrated.

One moment he was there—alive, tense, ready to fire.

The next, he was ash on the wind, his scream cut short by the sound of magic tearing the fabric of the air.

Micah staggered back. Brynne grabbed his arm.

"She's starting it," she hissed. "We have to go."

"She doesn't know what she's doing," Silas rasped, still on one knee.

Thea's hands lifted skyward, mouth moving in ancient rhythm. Language lost to all but the cursed and the damned. Words meant to cleanse. Words meant to end.

"Silas," Brynne snapped, panic in her voice. "Stop her!"

He forced himself up, muscles trembling, poison clawing at his spine. The cursed arrow pulsed like a second heartbeat inside him.

Thea's power surged again.

And the sky opened.

Clouds ripped apart in a circle above her head. Light poured in—not warm, not golden, but white and cold and terrifying.

Micah ran.

Brynne hesitated just long enough to look Silas in the eye.

"This is your mess," she said. "When she kills you, don't say we didn't warn you."

Then she vanished into the trees.

Silas stumbled forward. Each step was agony.

But he had done this before. Countless times.

He knew how it ended.

And he wasn't going to let it end here.

Thea's voice pitched higher, her body rising half an inch from the ground. Her veins were nearly black now. Her breathing shallow. The blood from her nose now painted her chin, streaked down her throat.

He reached her.

He pressed a hand to her shoulder, but she didn't see him. She was somewhere else. A plane between worlds.

So he did what only he could.

He took her hand.

Clasped it tightly.

And said her name—not aloud, but inside her.

Not the name she wore now, but the first one.

The one she'd whispered into his neck a thousand years ago, when the night was quiet and her hands were clean of blood.

He whispered it again.

Her lips stopped moving.

Her body sagged. Collapsed into him.

And Silas caught her, just as the firelight from the cottage flared behind them.

He went to his knees, holding her like glass.

The wind died.

The trees stilled.

The light faded.

And the morning returned—gray, wet, and broken.

~*~

Thea

The bed was too warm.

Thea stirred, her body sinking deeper into the thick wool blanket as consciousness clawed its way back. Her head throbbed behind her eyes, a dull, rhythmic ache that felt like the aftershock of something massive. Her lips were dry. Her limbs, heavy. She inhaled slowly, scenting the faint aroma of cedar smoke, honey, and something herbal in the air.

Her cat, Marg, was curled beside her, nestled close to her ribs, purring softly. Thea blinked at the ceiling above her—her ceiling, her room—but something still felt off.

Like the house itself was holding its breath.

She reached for Marg with a tired hand and scratched gently between her ears. The cat stirred, gave a lazy mewl, then immediately perked up.

Thea frowned.

Marg jumped from the bed and hissed toward the doorway—then vanished out of the room like she'd been chased.

A quiet knock tapped at the edge of the open doorframe.

Thea sat up quickly, the ache in her head flaring.

"Don't be alarmed," a voice said gently.

Silas stepped into view, moving slowly, almost reverently, as if he expected her to bolt. He was dressed now in one of her late grandfather's old flannels, sleeves rolled, shirt left unbuttoned at the collar. He carried a chipped mug in both hands, steam curling from the rim.

"I brought you tea," he said, offering it carefully. "For the pain."

Thea stared at him.

For a long moment, she didn't move.

It was one thing to see a man in your dreams. It was another to see him covered in blood in your backyard. But to have him now in your home, in your clothes, carrying you tea—it was too much.

"I didn't think you'd remember," he added, voice quiet. "You fainted."

She took the mug from his hands, fingers brushing his as she did. They were warm. Solid. Real.

He was real.

Thea brought the tea to her lips and sipped.

It was sweet and earthy. Calming. She tried to steady her breath.

"What... happened to me?"

Silas lowered himself into the worn armchair across from her bed, watching her with the kind of quiet attention that made her nervous.

"You passed out," he said.

"No—before that."

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes flickered. "You stepped outside. You saw what was happening. And you reacted."

"That's not what I meant," she whispered. "There was more. Something was wrong with me. I felt it."

She looked at her hands. Still pale. No black marks. No burns.

"I've had dreams," she said. "My whole life. Of you. Of... things I can't explain. Magic. Fire. A place with cliffs and wind and trees that went on forever."

She swallowed. "I always thought they were just—dreams."

Silas leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "They aren't."

Thea blinked. "What?"

He let the silence stretch for a few heartbeats before answering.

"We've known each other," he said. "Before. A long time ago."

She gripped the mug tighter.

"Where?"

"Ireland," he said. "The highlands. Nine hundred years ago."

She let out a short, unsteady laugh. "You're insane."

He didn't flinch.

Thea stared at him. "You're serious."

Silas nodded once. "You were different then. Stronger. You had gifts—still do, though you may not remember them."

"And you?"

"I was... drawn to you. From the moment I saw you. I knew your name before you spoke it."

"Then what happened?" she asked quietly.

Silas looked down at his hands. "Life," he said. "War. Blood. Duty."

That last word hung in the air like a ghost.

"You disappeared," he said finally. "And I spent centuries trying to find you again."

Thea's heart beat faster.

"How have you been alive all this time?"

Silas paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "I was cursed."

"Cursed," she repeated.

He nodded. "It's the simplest word for what was done to me."

She opened her mouth to press him further but stopped herself.

Cursed.

It explained his eyes. His strength. The impossible wound that had vanished from his chest without a scar.

Thea shifted beneath the blanket.

"So... I was someone else. And you knew me then?"

"I did."

"Did you love her?"

Silas looked at her then—really looked. Not with intensity or longing, but something quieter. Regret, maybe. Memory.

"I did."

The words shouldn't have made her stomach flip.

She set the tea on the nightstand, her hands trembling slightly.

"So all those dreams," she whispered, "They weren't just dreams."

"No."

She nodded slowly, the weight of it all starting to settle into her bones. Nine hundred years. Curses. Magic. A man she'd known in another life and dreamed about in this one. And somehow, he had come back to her again—broken and bleeding, landing in her garden like some omen she hadn't known she'd summoned.

Thea leaned back into her pillows.

"You should get some rest," Silas said gently, standing.

She stopped him with a quiet voice.

"Thank you."

He turned, brow furrowing.

"For what?"

"For not... leaving," she said. "For telling me the truth. Even if I'm not sure what to do with it yet."

Silas nodded once. "I won't lie to you, Thea. I never have."

And then he left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Thea stared at the ceiling long after he was gone, unsure whether her heart felt steadier—or more exposed—than ever before.