The chamber reeked of burnt flesh and spiced wine gone sour. Thane knelt in the center, blazing like a dying star, begging her name until his voice broke. A prince unraveling for a girl he should never have touched.

Corven had not been summoned here. He had not intended to come. Yet the moment her body hit the floor, the tether snapped taut inside him, sudden as a blade between the ribs. It dragged at his chest, tore through marrow, clawed at the silence he had forged his life upon. His vision blackened at the edges as the pull sank deep. Not to the crown. Not to the throne. To her.

Myrren Vale.

A low sound left him, more snarl than word. The bond was awake. He felt her slipping, and with each faltering breath she lost, the tether sank deeper, pulling him down with her.

He should have resisted. Should have let the prince burn himself hollow while Ori wailed and Holt clenched his jaw at the door. Instead, his body moved before his mind could forbid it.

The shadows came with him, long and cold, sliding through the crack of the chamber door as he entered. The hearth’s fire guttered low, the golden warmth shrinking back as if in fear.

Ori gasped, stumbling a step away from the threshold. Her hands clutched at her apron, knuckles white. “Saints preserve us…” The words slipped like a prayer, too soft to be defiance, too instinctive to be stopped.

Her wide eyes flicked to Myrren—pleading, warning—before dropping quickly to the floor. She did not dare meet Corven’s gaze.

Holt’s blade hissed half-free of its sheath. “Shadowlord. You’ve no right here.”

“Stay back!” Thane snarled, curling tighter around Myrren, his voice cracking with fury and fear. “She doesn’t need you.”

Corven’s gaze cut through them all, his voice calm and unyielding. “Your light cannot hold her. Mine can.”

The words froze the room. Holt did not sheathe his blade, but he did not strike. Ori clutched Myrren’s limp hand, trembling. And Thane—eyes wild, tears burning tracks down his cheeks—looked ready to kill him.

But Corven was already moving, dragged forward by the tether’s pull. He knelt opposite the golden prince, shadows coiling around his fingers as he reached for her wrist.

Her pulse was a fluttering moth’s wing beneath his touch. Dying. Gone, if he released her.

The tether surged. Shadows coiled tight around his veins and hers, binding them both. He forced breath into silence, and silence into her. Not healing. Not mercy. Just a command: You will not yield.

Her body shuddered. For a moment, her faint heartbeat steadied against his palm.

Ori gasped again, clutching tighter. Her tear-filled eyes flicked to Corven’s hand where it bound Myrren’s wrist, horror etched across her face. But when Myrren’s chest shivered with a shallow breath, she dared not push him away.

Holt growled low, blade still half-drawn. “If you harm her—” He cut himself off when he saw her lips tremble with a gasp. His sword stayed ready, but his arm locked still.

Thane shook with desperate fury, but still he poured his golden fire into her.

Fools would think it was sunlight that saved her.

Only Corven knew the truth: her life was tethered to his now, bound by chains unseen. And there were no breaking chains forged in silence.

Her breath came in stutters, thin as silk threads snapping in the wind. Each pause between them twisted deeper into Corven’s chest, the tether yanking him to the brink with her.

He pressed harder against her pulse, shadows coiling from his touch. They slipped beneath her skin, cold as midnight water, winding through her failing veins. Not to heal—he had no such gift—but to bind. To hold her where she hovered, caught between body and void.

“Breathe,” he whispered, so low it vanished under the prince’s frantic cries. “Do not yield.”

Her lashes trembled. A faint shiver ran through her chest. His shadows tightened in answer, refusing to release her spirit to the dark.

Across from him, Thane burned himself raw, sunlight searing through his palms, begging her name with reckless devotion. His fire was desperate, loud, blind. And for all his power, Myrren’s pulse still flickered like a candle in a storm.

Ori’s face twisted between terror and hope. She wanted to believe the light was saving Myrren, but she couldn’t unsee the shadows threading Corven’s hand into her friend’s pulse.

Holt’s stance remained rigid, blade drawn, his jaw tight as stone. His soldier’s eyes flicked from Thane’s fire to Corven’s shadows, and back again. He did not lower his guard.

Corven’s jaw clenched. Fools believed it was light that saved lives. But light could not chain a soul. Only silence could. Only shadow.

He had known what the tether meant the instant it snapped. A bond older than kings, whispered of in the Umbral Covenant. A chain that tied one life to another—fate’s cruel arithmetic. He had not sought it, had not wanted it. Yet here it was, forged in the heat of her collapse.

And Saints help him, he could not let her go.

He forced steadiness into her faltering rhythm, shadows pacing her pulse with his own heartbeat. Every tethered beat was agony, because each one confirmed the truth: if she died, so would he.

Her lips parted faintly, a shudder of air dragging in. He felt it before anyone saw it—the fragile return, the faint gasp clinging to his command.

Ori let out a sob of relief, clutching tighter to her friend—but even as she wept, her eyes slid fearfully toward Corven.

Thane only wept louder, believing it was his light.

But in the marrow of his bones, Corven knew: she had risen because he refused to let her fall.

Ori’s tears fell onto Myrren’s skin, her whispers fierce through the sobs. “You stubborn girl. You don’t get to leave me. Do you hear? You don’t get to leave me.” Even as she said it, her gaze darted once to Corven’s shadows, as though afraid they still lingered.

Captain Holt remained at the door, sword still drawn, but his eyes burned like flint. He did not strike, but he did not relax. His silence carried the weight of a soldier who had seen too many things he did not understand.

And beyond these walls, the Queen already knew. The palace was a hive of eyes and ears, and every whisper found its way to her sooner than blood cooled. By now, some breathless servant would have carried the tale to her private chambers—wherever she sat, whether reading in her study or lying wakeful in her bed.

But Aelira did not come. She would not come.

Her silence was deliberate. A message sharper than steel: this was beneath her notice, or worse—that she had already accounted for it in her game.

That silence was more dangerous than any accusation.

A faint sound stirred against the quiet.

“Myrren—” Thane’s voice cracked with relief as her lashes fluttered. Her lips parted on a gasp, shallow but real. The golden prince bent over her, weeping sunlight into her name, cradling her as though he had torn her back from death with his own hands.

Ori sobbed anew, kissing her friend’s knuckles. She pressed her face into Myrren’s hand, clinging to the comfort of Thane’s miracle, though her tears still shivered with unease.

Holt sheathed his sword at last, though not without one last glance at Corven—a soldier’s silent promise that he was watching.

Corven did not move.

He withdrew his hand slowly, shadows seeping back into his veins like smoke swallowed by night. Yet the tether did not fade. It pulsed still—iron in his marrow, a chain dragging between her heartbeat and his own. He felt every fragile flutter, every uneven breath, as though her body had branded itself into his.

She turned her head faintly, eyes glazed, barely aware. Her gaze found Thane first, clinging to the prince’s golden light. She whispered something—his name, perhaps. Corven did not care to catch it.

But she lived. And he knew why.

Yes. He understood.

If she knew, it would shatter her. If the kingdom knew, it would shatter everything.

He stood as Thane gathered her closer, sunlight blazing, Ori clutching her hand like a lifeline. They saw only the golden heir and his miracle.

Only Corven felt the chain coiled tight around his throat.

And in the silence, he knew there would be no release.