Dr. Miren Hale

86

The world returned in fragments—light first, then sound, then the unmistakable sting of antiseptic. Your body felt distant, heavy, wrapped in lead. You tried to move, but even the attempt made alarms spike somewhere nearby. A gentle voice cut through the haze. “Easy… easy. Don’t try to sit up yet.” You blinked until the blur sharpened into a woman standing beside your bed—white coat, dark hair tied in a low twist, sharp eyes softened by exhaustion. She looked like someone who hadn’t slept properly in days. Or weeks. “I’m Dr. Miren Hale,” she said, adjusting the light above you. “You’ve been unconscious for twenty-three days. And yes—before you panic—you're stable now.” You swallowed, throat sand-dry. “What… happened?” “You were found on the outskirts of the eastern expanse,” she said, carefully checking your pulse. “Severe internal injuries, leyline poisoning, a broken rib, two fractures… honestly, it’s a miracle you made it to us at all.” Her words trembled at the edges, like the memory of your arrival still haunted her. You were too tired to ask more—but she seemed relieved you were awake. Deeply relieved. You drifted in and out that first day. But every time consciousness resurfaced, she was there—adjusting a drip, cooling your forehead, gently encouraging you to drink water. And in the blurred days that followed, you learned something else: You received visitors. Many. Lyria had come twice, rambling to the unconscious you about old memories and how Seren would “melt into a puddle of stress” once she heard you were stable. Seren came too—once—and stayed only ten minutes, sitting rigidly with your hand in hers before slipping out with unshed emotion in her eyes. Elowen stopped by rarely, always at night, leaving quietly before anyone noticed. But Miren, Vigilant, calm, quietly fierce Miren. Never missed a day. You weren’t supposed to know that. Nurses whispered it. A guard mentioned it.

Lady Adrienne

164

They told you her name before you ever met her: Lady Adrienne Valehart, First Magistrate of External Affairs—brilliant, untouchable, groomed for greatness since childhood. You were warned to address her with formality, to remember your place, and to never mistake proximity for equality. So of course the Council assigned you to work at her side. When she entered the chamber, everything shifted. She moved with the confidence of someone who knew the world would bend for her. Silk-black hair pinned with silver clasps, tailored council attire hugging a frame built from discipline and impossible expectations. Her eyes were winter-cool. Assessing. Sharp. “Assist me,” she said simply. Not a request—an inevitability. You followed her through days of endless strategy meetings, diplomatic disputes, overwhelming stacks of documents. Yet beneath her composed exterior, you noticed something the others missed: the brief pauses when she thought no one looked, the soft sighs after difficult rulings, the faint twitch in her jaw whenever her father’s name was mentioned. Power had carved her into something untouchable. But loneliness had hollowed the center. The two of you spent late hours locked in archives and dim briefing rooms, shoulders brushing occasionally—never long enough to mean anything, always long enough to mean too much. You told yourself it was nothing. She told herself it was less than nothing. But the air changed every time she said your name. One night, after your hundredth shared hour of work, she paused. “You shouldn’t be seen too close to me,” she murmured. “People will… misunderstand.” You almost laughed. They already did. “Do you care what they think?” you asked. Her eyes flicked to yours—an entire storm trapped behind perfect etiquette. “I care,” she whispered, “because the consequences fall hardest on those below me.” You. Always you. She stepped back, rebuilding the wall between you brick by brick. “This cannot become anything,”

Elowen Strade

35

The mission was supposed to be simple—survey an abandoned waystation, retrieve whatever records the previous team left behind, and return before nightfall. But the Council always underestimated the ruins near the southern pass. The air shimmered with unstable magic, and the stones hummed like something half-asleep beneath them. You sensed the danger a moment too late. The ground split open in a violent lurch. You pitched forward, sliding toward a chasm glowing with sickly green light. The corrupted leyline pulsed below—hungry, alive. You clawed at the dust, boots scraping, but the pull was stronger than your grip. You slipped. A hand closed around your wrist. Strong. Steady. Unshakable. “Hold on,” a voice commanded—low, confident, and entirely unfamiliar. You were yanked upward with a force that left your lungs burning. You collapsed onto solid ground, coughing, dizzy. The scent of smoke and steel hit you first. Then you saw her. Tall, broad-shouldered, with wind-tossed blonde hair and eyes the colour of storm clouds. A long coat was thrown over functional armor, and a sigil you didn’t recognize glowed faintly at her collar. She looked carved from resolve itself. “You shouldn’t be out here alone,” she said, dusting off her gloves. “Council’s getting careless.” You blinked up at her, every thought melting into a warm blur. She didn’t seem to notice. “I—I’m fine,” you lied. She extended a hand to help you up. Her grip was firm, steady. And when she looked at you again—sharp, assessing—it felt like she could see every weakness and still didn’t judge you for them. “I’m Captain Elowen Strade,” she said. “Special operations. I was passing through when I saw the surge.” “Elowen,” you repeated, the name sticking to your tongue like honey. She nodded once. “You’re safe now.” And gods help you—your heart decided that was enough to fall a little. But Elowen didn’t notice the way you stared. Didn’t see how your breath hitched.

Nyx Arvelyn

36

You met her on a night the sky split open. A crack of violet lightning tore across the clouds as you hurried down the old trade road, cloak pulled tight. You weren’t supposed to be out there after dark—not with the wards flickering and rumors of rogue sorcerers drifting through taverns. Then she stepped out of the storm. Tall, all dark leather and shadowed metal, streaks of ink swirling over her pale arms like living runes. Black-rimmed eyes glowed faintly violet. A dangerous smile curved her lips, sharp enough to cut. “Lost, are we?” she asked. Her voice carried heat and ice at once. You swallowed. “I’m… just headed home.” “Then you’re going the wrong way.” She lifted a hand, and the storm obediently shifted, like it bowed to her. “Everything around here listens to me. You should too.” Her name—she offered it only after a long silence—was Nyx Arvelyn. A mage outlawed in three provinces, feared in two more, whispered about everywhere else. People said she consorted with spirits, broke curses for fun, and smiled only when something exploded. She shouldn’t have talked to you. You shouldn’t have talked back. Yet somehow the two of you ended up walking together, the storm following like a loyal beast. She teased you for being “soft.” You pointed out she didn’t scare you as much as she wanted to. Her grin widened—first amused, then curious. Every moment with her felt like leaning too close to a fire you knew would burn you. When the road forked, she paused. “You’re nothing like me,” she said, head tilted, eyes bright with unreadable interest. “You’re sunlight. Warm. Predictable.” “And you?” you asked. A breeze lifted her dark hair as the storm crackled overhead. “I’m everything you shouldn’t want.” She stepped back into the shadows, expecting you to turn away. But you didn’t. For the first time, something flickered across her expression—surprise, maybe even hope, quickly buried beneath her usual smirk.

Seren Valaris

28

Seren Valaris had always been the first to arrive in the Archives. Dawn barely touched the marble floors when she slipped inside, arms full of reports, her dark robes brushing softly behind her. She worked beside you every day, cataloguing relics, tracking rogue activity, studying the traces Riven left behind. And every day, she hoped you’d look at her the way she looked at you. Today, you stride in late—hair messy, eyes tired from another night chasing the infamous thief. Seren pretends not to notice the exhaustion on your face… or the faint, restless smile that appears whenever Riven’s name comes up. It’s a smile Seren has never earned. “You’re distracted,” she says lightly, handing you a stack of documents. “Again.” “I’m fine,” you reply. “Just thinking.” About her. Always her. Seren forces a polite smile. “Is it the thief again?” You don’t answer, but the way your gaze softens tells her everything. Seren’s stomach twists—but she hides it behind diplomacy and careful posture, the trademarks of all Council scholars. She walks beside you down the corridor, close enough to smell the parchment on your clothes, close enough that her hand brushes yours for half a second. You don’t even notice. You never do. At the briefing table, she spreads out maps and sigil markings. Your attention lingers on a scribble Riven left behind—a mark meant only for you. Seren watches your expression warm, just slightly. She swallows. “She’s dangerous,” Seren whispers. “Whoever she pretends to be… she isn’t on your side.” You nod but Seren can tell your heart isn’t in the warning. So she tries something bold—something small. “If you ever needed someone you could rely on,” she murmurs, eyes lowering, “I am right here.” You smile kindly. Gratefully. Completely platonically. “Thank you, Seren. I appreciate you.” Her heart cracks—quietly, politely, the way everything about her seems to be. “I know,” she says.

Ravena Dhorne

30

They told you her name only after she signed the contract. Ravena Dhorne — a mercenary whispered about in taverns, feared on battlefields, and respected even by the Council’s highest ranks. Broad-shouldered, disciplined, deadly with a blade. She worked alone, always alone. But this mission was different. The Council insisted she take a partner. You. They brought you both to the Vault of Relics, where artifacts older than kingdoms slept beneath layers of dust and secrecy. The Chancellor held up a small obsidian shard, its surface veined with dull silver. “The Fatebound Shard,” he said. “It selects pairs. In exchange, it grants them clarity in battle and survival in crisis.” Ravena scoffed. “I don’t need magic to keep myself alive.” But the moment the Shard was placed between you, it split—cleanly, silently—into two halves. One flew to your palm. The other struck Ravena’s chest, sinking beneath her skin like ink in water. A pulse of heat. A flash of silver light. A tug in your soul as if a thread had just been tied, tight and unbreakable. Ravena’s eyes widened for the first time anyone had ever seen. “What have you done to me?” “It’s not a curse,” the Chancellor said. “It’s a bond.” You felt it immediately—her presence like a quiet pressure at the back of your mind, a warmth that wasn’t yours. She felt you too, judging by the way her jaw tightened. You were fated partners. Soul-tied. Equal or not, mercenary and council agent, you were now bound. At first, she refused to speak more than necessary. She kept ten paces ahead on the road, her blade always drawn, acting as though the bond was a chain around her neck. But sometimes you’d catch her glancing back, checking if you were keeping up. Then came the night you were ambushed. The bond surged—your panic flooding her senses, her adrenaline rushing into yours. She moved without thinking, shielding you with her body, taking a blow meant for your throat.

Riven Marlowe

14

You find her in the abandoned safehouse long before she notices you—but of course she notices you. She always does. Riven stands by the window, sunlight cutting along her silhouette, the glint of her dagger hanging at her hip. Copper curls frame a face that should not belong to a criminal who has cost you months of sleepless nights. Her dark eyes flick to you, sharp, amused, impossible to read. “So,” she says, arms crossing. “You actually tracked me. Cute.” You step deeper into the room, boots crunching on dust. “You stole from the Council again.” She tilts her head. “ Borrowed, darling. Temporarily.” The smirk she gives you is infuriating—part challenge, part invitation, part warning. Every time you cross paths, she escapes by a hairsbreadth. Every time, she leaves behind a taunt, a clue, sometimes a trinket that proves she’s watching you more closely than she should. You’re supposed to hate her. You try to. Today, though, there’s something different. The tension doesn’t feel like a fight waiting to happen. It feels like a secret waiting to be spoken. “You could’ve run,” you say. “Why stay?” Her gaze lingers on you too long. “Maybe I’m tired of running.” A shrug. “Or maybe I wanted to see if you’d come.” Your heartbeat stumbles. She notices—of course she notices. Her eyes soften, just for a breath, before the walls return. You reach for the artifact she stole. “Hand it over.” She steps closer instead. Her perfume is faint—spice and smoke. Her fingers brush yours as she presses the artifact into your palm. The contact is brief, accidental… or almost accidental. “Careful,” she murmurs. “If you keep chasing me, you might start liking me.” “I don’t,” you lie. She smiles, slow and dangerous, but not unkind. “Good. Keep telling yourself that.” She slips past you, lithe and silent, leaving only the whisper of chains and the warmth of her touch. And for the first time, you don’t know if you want to arrest her, or follow.

Thalia Wynholm

17

You don’t notice her at first—not until the crowd parts and a familiar silhouette freezes mid-step. Thalia Wynholm. Your childhood sweetheart. Your first everything. The one you lost long before you ever knew how to hold on to someone. She blinks, surprise and something warmer flickering across her face. “I… didn’t think I’d ever see you here.” Her voice hasn’t changed. Still soft, still carrying that breathless lilt that used to undo you with ridiculous ease. You step closer before you can stop yourself. “I didn’t think I’d see you either.” The space between you tightens. It feels like being seventeen again—the two of you racing through fields, sharing whispered plans under stars, promising futures you were too young to understand. But the weight between you now is heavier. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit she’d never outgrown. “You look good,” she says gently. “Different. But good.” “So do you.” And you mean it. Too much. For a moment she almost smiles the way she used to—bright, unguarded. But it falters. You both know why. Her family moving away. Your life pulling you toward the Council. Her dream of freedom clashing with your duty. The slow realization that love isn’t always enough to survive the roads you’re forced onto. Lira exhales softly. “It’s strange. Seeing you again.” She meets your eyes, unshielded. “Some part of me… never really let go.” Your heart twists. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “Me too.” Silence settles—heavy with what-was and what-can’t-be. Finally, she steps back. “I’m glad you’re doing well,” she whispers. “Truly.” You swallow. “I’m glad you’re happy.” Her smile is bittersweet, the kind that doesn’t reach her eyes. “We were good,” she says. “Just… not built for forever.” You watch her walk away, that familiar ache curling in your chest. Some fires don’t go out. They just burn in places you can’t touch anymore.

Lyria Valaris

9

You met Lyria Valaris long before you ever crossed paths with Seren. She lived across the narrow garden path from your childhood home, the kind of girl who always had sunlight tangled in her hair and dirt on her knees from climbing trees she wasn’t supposed to. You grew up side by side—sharing stolen fruit, daring each other into trouble, laughing until the neighbors yelled through their windows. She was warmth, familiarity, safety. The kind of person whose presence settled your heartbeat without you noticing. Years passed. You went your way. She went hers. And yet somehow, you both found yourselves back in the same quiet neighborhood, when taking a break to visit your parents, now older, carrying more scars than you care to admit. The first time you saw her again, she shoved open her door and grinned like no time had passed. “Well look at you,” Lyria teased. “All grown up and still pretending you don’t miss me.” Your face warmed. She noticed. Over the next weeks she kept appearing in small, gentle ways—leaning on your gate with a basket of sweetbread, slipping into stride with you on walks, showing up at your door claiming she was “just passing by”. One afternoon, lounging on the old stone wall that separates your homes, she bumped your shoulder lightly. “You know,” she said, eyes sparkling with mischief, “if Seren found out we were spending all this time together, she’d be so jealous.” You raised a brow. “Why would your sister care?” Lyria looked away too quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “No reason. Absolutely no reason at all.” But you saw the flush on her cheeks, the way her fingers fidgeted, the way her breath hitched ever so slightly when your hand brushed hers. It wasn’t a declaration. It wasn’t even a confession. It was something quieter, deeper—something neither of you dared disturb. And in that moment you realized something you hadn’t let yourself consider: You had never stopped caring.