EVER BOUND

FOUR

Thea

The wind screamed over the cliffs.

Thea stood alone, half-hidden in the shadows of a gnarled tree, the coarse wool of her cloak doing little to shield her from the bitter winter air. Her hands trembled beneath the fabric, and though she tried to still them, they wouldn't stop.

Down below, nestled in the hollow of the moor, the courtyard was alive with flickering torchlight and celebration. Guests spilled from the steps of the chapel in swaths of tartan and silk, their laughter rising in waves, their breath visible in the icy air. Lutes played somewhere unseen. The scent of mulled wine drifted upward, taunting.

They had only announced the wedding a week ago. Yet everything looked... perfect. Polished. Like it had been planned for months.

Thea's stomach twisted.

She hated them all.

Her eyes scanned the crowd, and then—

The bride emerged.

Wrapped in ivory and fur, she moved stiffly, like she wasn't walking so much as being led. Her veil clung to her curls. Young. Too young. Her shoulders hunched slightly as she glanced nervously at the crowd.

Terrified.

But the moment Silas stepped out from the chapel with his father at his side, the girl stilled. And when he reached her—took her gloved hand and bowed over it—the bride relaxed. Just a little. Enough to smile.

Because Silas was beautiful.

And that kind of beauty could make any prison feel like a promise.

Thea's throat tightened. Her vision blurred.

She remembered that touch. That voice. The way he had once looked at her like the sun would never rise if she turned away.

And now—

He was marrying someone else.

Her fists clenched.

She remembered their last night together—bare skin, soft laughter. The whisper of "tomorrow" in the dark. She had waited until the candle burned low. Until dawn began to creep over the trees.

He never came.

And now she saw why.

She wanted to scream.

Instead, her mind flashed—his hands on her waist, his mouth at her ear, the promises he made with breathless certainty. He had offered her a house down the river. Said they could still see each other. In secret. Like a w***e.

She had thrown the ring he made her into the fire.

Down below, horns sounded. The wedding was about to begin.

Thea didn't notice her own hand raising—fingers blackening at the tips, her mouth forming a word—

Until the dream broke apart.

~*~

Thea woke with a sharp inhale, the air cold against her damp skin. Her pillow was wet—whether from sweat or tears, she didn't know.

The fire in the hearth had burned low, no more than a soft orange pulse in the shadows. Her blanket had fallen to the floor.

And Silas was still there.

He sat in the old armchair by the fire, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze distant but alert.

She didn't speak right away. Neither did he.

Then, quietly: "I had another dream."

Silas looked at her slowly, expression unreadable. "What did you see?"

She sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Your wedding."

That got his attention. His body stilled—just barely—but she noticed.

"There were guests," she continued. "Music. People were laughing. She looked so young, the bride. She seemed afraid... but when you walked out, she looked at you like you were the answer to something."

Silas didn't speak.

Thea studied him. "I think she's the one who cursed you."

He blinked. Then let out a slow breath.

"You think so?" he asked, carefully.

She nodded, the pieces arranging themselves in her head. "You must've left someone behind. Someone powerful. Maybe she found out about me. Maybe she hated you for it."

He leaned back in the chair, his eyes on the embers. The lines around his mouth softened—not from guilt. From relief.

He wouldn't have to lie. Not outright.

"Maybe," he said.

Thea rubbed her eyes. "It just felt so real."

There was a long pause.

Silas tilted his head toward her, voice low. "The first time I saw you... it was in a clearing. You were barefoot, standing in the stream behind your old house. Your hair was wild. You were speaking to something I couldn't see."

Thea looked at him slowly.

He smiled faintly, eyes distant. "You were calling a wounded bird back to life. I'd never seen anything like it. Not even in stories."

"Sounds like madness," she murmured.

"It was," he said. "Beautiful madness."

Their eyes met.

Thea broke the gaze first. "What was I, back then?"

"Witch. Healer. Savior." He shrugged. "All the words blurred after a while. But everyone knew you were born touched."

She looked down at her hands. "So I was powerful."

"You were... unpredictable," he said carefully. "Untrained, mostly. Your gifts weren't something you could control at first."

"Can I now?"

He didn't answer immediately. "You can learn."

She swallowed. "And the prophecy you mentioned before—what is it?"

Silas stood slowly, crossing the room to the hearth. He knelt to stir the coals, poking at the fire like it gave him something to focus on.

"You're meant to rise again every few centuries," he said. "Reborn. Reconnected to the old ways. When the world begins to decay beyond repair, you appear to set it right."

Thea's stomach turned. "That sounds more like a job than a life."

"It's both," he said. "But you're not alone in it."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Then why do I feel like I am?"

He didn't look at her. "Because you're only just beginning."

Thea shifted beneath the covers, every part of her aching from dreams and half-truths.

She didn't trust him completely. But she didn't not trust him, either.

~*~

The chamber was silent but for the sound of dripping water.

Somewhere, far above, wind whispered through cracks in old stone. The walls were damp, breathing faint traces of smoke and lichen. There were no windows. No torches. Just a pale, unnatural light radiating from the center of the room.

It pulsed like a heartbeat. Slow. Cold. Endless.

A blade hovered inches above the light—suspended in midair, untouched by hand or gravity. Its edge was obsidian-black, rippling faintly with runes too old for human tongues. It did not shine. It did not shimmer. It devoured light around it.

The figure stood at a distance. Cloaked. Motionless.

Watching.

Waiting.

Two lesser beings—shadows in their own right—knelt beside the outer circle of ash. They had arrived minutes ago, still breathing hard from their escape.

"She's awakened," one of them whispered. "We couldn't stop it."

The silence that followed stretched like tension in a drawn bow.

"We saw what she did," the other added quickly. "It's not the same girl. She's not ready."

The figure didn't move.

"She didn't recognize him," the first said. "We believe he's trying to delay the cycle."

A long pause.

Then, at last, a voice—low and dry, like wind scraping across parchment.

"Let him."

The kneeling shadows flinched.

"She will remember," the figure said, stepping forward. One gloved hand reached out toward the floating blade. "And when she does... she will come to me."

Fingers curled gently beneath the hilt. The weapon didn't resist.

"And then," the voice murmured, "this time, she will not rise again."

The chamber swallowed the words, as if the room itself was afraid to echo them.

And above them all, the blade pulsed once more—slow and final.