Distance made the bond feel like a live nerve stretched across miles.
The first hours after Tristan’s convoy disappeared beyond the tree line were the worst. His presence remained—steady, focused, edged with the cold clarity he carried into danger—but the fine detail was gone. I could no longer feel the exact shape of his thoughts, only the broad weather of him: movement, vigilance, the low thrum of command. Every few minutes I caught myself reaching for a closer connection that the miles refused to give, and every failed reach left a small, specific ache under the claim on my throat.
Elder Mira found me on the reinforced upper landing before midday and took one look at my face.
“Separation strain,” she said. “Expected. Dangerous if you let it become a door.”
“I’m not opening any doors
