POV: Ravenna
The first rejection took twenty minutes.
I watched Theron—young, unscarred, hopeful—approach the woman. Erika. Pretty. Merchant's daughter, I'd learned from my research. She smiled at him. Soft. Almost apologetic.
"I felt it too," projection-Erika said. "The bond. The moment we met."
Projection-Theron's face lit up. Gods, he looked so young. Twenty-one. Before the scars. Before the legend. Just a boy who'd finally found something good.
"I felt it," he breathed. "You're—"
"But I can't accept it." She stepped back. "My father forbids it. You have no bloodline. No name. No future to offer me."
The light died in his eyes.
"I could earn—"
"No." Gentle. Firm. Killing him with kindness. "I'm sorry. Truly. But I must obey my father."
"Please—"
"Goodbye, Theron."
She turned and walked away. And projection-Theron stood there, hand outstretched, as something inside him shattered.
Real-Theron took his first step. Hands clenched so tight I saw white knuckles even from the gallery.
The court murmured. Sympathetic. Uncomfortable.
They hadn't seen anything yet.
The second rejection was worse.
Two years later. Projection-Theron older now. The scar cutting through his face—fresh, angry, barely healed. He'd gotten it saving a village from raiders. Become a hero.
And there was Mira. Healer's apprentice. She'd tended his wounds. The bond had formed during recovery.
"I need to tell you something," projection-Theron said. His voice was rougher. Less hopeful. But still... trying. "What I feel—what we both feel—"
"I know." Mira looked at the floor. At the walls. Anywhere but his face. "The bond."
"Will you—"
She finally looked at him. At his face. At the scar.
Her expression recoiled.
"I can't." Her voice shook. "I'm sorry. I can't—when I look at you, I see—"
"The scar."
"It's not just the scar. It's what it represents. Violence. Death. You're a killer now, Theron. A warrior. I wanted to heal people, not—" She backed away. "I can't look at you without seeing blood."
"Mira, please—"
"I'm sorry."
She left. Practically ran.
Projection-Theron touched his face. The scar he'd earned saving her village. The wound that had made him a monster in her eyes.
Real-Theron was shaking now. Barely visible, but I saw it.
He took another step. And another.
The court was silent. Heavy. This wasn't entertainment anymore.
This was watching someone's soul get carved apart.
Beside me, Morgana's hand found mine. Squeezed hard.
"Make it stop," I whispered. "Can't we make it stop?"
"No one can stop the Fear Walk, love." Her voice was thick. "He has to walk through it all."
The third rejection was political.
Four years later. Projection-Theron was harder now. Battle-scarred. The "merciless warrior" reputation forming. But still—when Senna appeared, still hopeful.
Noble lady. Beautiful. The bond had been instant, powerful.
"I want to accept," projection-Senna said. They stood in a garden. Alone. Her hand in his. "I want to, Theron. You have to believe me."
"Then do it."
"My family has arranged another match. Political. Advantageous." She was crying. "If I refuse, they'll disown me. I'll lose everything."
"You'll have me."
"Will I?" She looked at him. "You're a warrior. You could die tomorrow. Leave me with nothing. No family. No home. No future."
"I would never—"
"You can't promise that." She pulled her hand away. "I'm sorry. I have to think of my future. Our bond isn't worth—"
"Isn't worth what?" His voice was flat. Dead. "Say it."
"Isn't worth the risk."
She left. Chose a political marriage over their bond. Over him.
Projection-Theron stood in that garden alone. And I watched something else die inside him.
Real-Theron stumbled. Caught himself. Kept walking.
Two hours had passed.
The court was restless now. Uncomfortable. Some people were crying.
I was one of them.
"This was my fault," I choked out. "I did this. I arranged for everyone to see. I thought—I thought it would humiliate him. Make him leave. I didn't—"
"Shh." Morgana pulled me against her. "Not now, Rav. Watch. Bear witness. You owe him that much."
She was right.
So I watched.
The fourth rejection was cruel.
Six years later. Projection-Theron was the warrior the court knew now. Scarred. Massive. Deadly. The legend walking.
Cora. Soldier's widow. She'd met him on a battlefield. Recognized the bond.
"I'm afraid of you," she said bluntly.
"I would never hurt you."
"I know. But you hurt others. I've heard the stories. 'Merciless' they call you. 'Brutal.' 'Cruel.'" She looked at him with something like pity. "What if that cruelty turns on me someday?"
"It wouldn't—"
"You don't know that. War changed you. Made you into something—" She stopped. "You're dangerous, Theron. And I can't risk binding my life to someone who terrifies me."
"I became this to survive," he said quietly. "The rejections. The pain. I built walls to protect what was left."
"I know. But those walls also keep people out. Keep love out." She touched his face briefly. "I'm sorry. I can't love someone I fear."
She walked away.
And projection-Theron stood there, understanding that his survival—the armor he'd built to protect himself—had made him unlovable.
Real-Theron fell to his knees.
The court gasped.
"Get up," Veyron called from below. "You must walk. Don't stop."
Theron pushed himself upright. Swayed. Started walking again.
Three hours. Three full hours in this nightmare.
One rejection left.
I couldn't watch. Couldn't look away.
Morgana was crying openly now. "Why would anyone survive this? Why put himself through it again?"
I knew the answer. Had known since last night in the armory.
Hope.
Stupid, foolish, stubborn hope that maybe—maybe—the next time would be different.
The fifth rejection was the one that nearly killed him.
Two years ago. Recent. The wound still fresh.
Isla. Baker's daughter. Young. Kind. The bond had been the strongest yet.
"I love you," projection-Isla said. Tears streaming down her face. "I love you so much it hurts."
"Then stay." Projection-Theron's voice broke. "Please. Stay."
"I can't. My family—they physically locked me in my room. Threatened to disown me. To—" She sobbed. "I'm not strong enough to fight them. I want to be, but I'm not."
"We can leave. Together. Start over—"
"And hate me in five years when you realize what you gave up? When the bond isn't enough to sustain us and you're poor and miserable because of me?" She shook her head. "I won't do that to you."
"Isla—"
"I'm marrying Thomas. Next month. He's a good man. He'll—he'll take care of me."
"But you love me."
"I know." She touched his face. Memorizing. Saying goodbye. "I'll always love you. That's what makes this hurt so much. But love isn't enough, Theron. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
She kissed him. Once. Goodbye.
Then she left.
And projection-Theron—
He collapsed. Fell to the ground like his strings had been cut. Didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just lay there.
"No," I heard myself say. "No, get up. Please get up."
Real-Theron was on his knees again. Bent forward. Forehead to the ground. Shaking so hard his whole body trembled.
Four hours. Four hours of this torture.
"He's going to die," someone whispered in the crowd. "Five rejections. No one survives five. He's going to die right there."
"Get UP!" Veyron shouted. "THERON! Get up and walk!"
He didn't move.
The court held its breath.
Seconds. Minutes. An eternity.
Then—slowly, impossibly—he pushed himself up. Swaying. Barely standing.
And he walked.
One foot. Then the other. Through the projection of himself lying broken on the ground. Through the five rejections that should have killed him. Through pain that would have destroyed anyone else.
He walked.
When he emerged from the circle, he collapsed immediately.
I was running before I knew I'd moved. Down from the gallery. Into the chamber. I didn't care about protocol or propriety or the hundred people watching.
I caught him as he fell.
His weight nearly took us both down, but I held on. Wrapped my arms around him and held on like he was the only solid thing in the world.
"I'm sorry," I sobbed into his shoulder. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
He was shaking. Silent. Not crying but shaking like he'd been broken from the inside.
"I did this," I choked out. "I made sure everyone would see. I wanted to humiliate you. I wanted—gods, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."
His hand came up. Touched my hair. Barely.
"You're here," he rasped. Voice destroyed. "You watched."
"I shouldn't have—"
"No." His fingers tightened slightly. "You should. You needed to see."
"See what?"
"What happens. When you reject someone like me."
The words hit like blows.
"I won't," I whispered fiercely. "I won't do that to you. I swear, I won't—"
"You don't have to promise—"
"I'm promising anyway." I pulled back. Looked at his face. Amber eyes red-rimmed, exhausted, ancient. "No more sabotage. No more plans. No more cruelty. I'm done. I'm—I'm choosing you. If you'll still—"
"Always." One word. But it held everything. "Always choose you. Even after this. Even knowing—"
"Then we're even. Because I'm choosing you too."
I helped him stand. Wrapped his arm over my shoulders and half-carried him from the chamber. The court parted silently. Respectfully.
They'd watched a man survive the impossible.
And I'd learned that sometimes the cruelest thing you can do is make someone's pain into spectacle.
Behind us, the Fear Walk chamber went dark. Waiting for its next victim.
But Theron had walked through his nightmare and survived.
And I'd been there to catch him when he fell. That had to mean something. It had to.