One moment, Thorne was laughing—full-bodied and carefree—as he sparred with Daas in the sun-dappled glade, their weapons clashing in rhythmic harmony. The scent of pine and damp moss hung in the air, grounding him in the simplicity of this rare moment of peace. Daas had just cracked a joke about Thorne's footwork, calling him "clumsier than a half-drunk centaur," when it hit him.
A bolt of panic struck his chest so suddenly, so violently, it knocked the breath from his lungs. The air turned cold. His muscles locked. A buzzing filled his ears as if the world had turned distant, unreachable.
Thorne staggered, hand reaching for a tree for balance, his breath ragged and sharp. His heart thundered so fiercely it felt like it might tear free from his ribs. The tether—the soul cord—burned hot i
