POV: Mara
Interrogation rooms always feel colder than the hall outside. Stone, table, two chairs, a bucket that’s seen worse days. Even the torches burn quieter in here, like they’re listening. Jax warned me not to come alone. The Regent warned me not to speak unless spoken to. Cael—through the bond—said my name like a plea.
None of it mattered. The prisoner asked for me. Only me.
They let me in because the man won’t speak to anyone else.
He kneels again the second he sees me, as if the floor is holy because I’m on it. It makes me angry enough to breathe.
“Stop that,” I say, sharper than intended. “Sit like a person.”
He sits. Immediately. His lip splits a little more when his jaw clenches. Blood trickles. He doesn’t flinch. He looks grateful. That bothers me the most.
“We listened for you,” he says. His voice is smoke and river-rock, worn smooth by worship. “At the bridges. In the dust. In the songs. The Moon’s Anchor hums, and the tide answers.”
“I don’t hum!” I snap, furious. “I work. I cook. I carry water. I count beans.”
My fists shake. “I work. That’s all.”
He smiles like that proved his point. “Exactly.”
“What is your plan?” Jax asks from the wall, leaning there with that lazy stance he uses when he wants someone to underestimate him. His voice is bored on purpose—bored means safe. “Speak plainly.”
“To return her to the White Gold,” the man answers, still looking at me, as if Jax is wind and I’m gravity. “To the cliff that birthed her. To the king who waits.”
My skin goes ice-cold. My stomach drops as if the stone under me cracked and opened.
“No one owns me,” I say, voice low.
He tilts his head like I’m a riddle. “Anchor doesn’t belong,” he says. “Anchor holds.”
“I am not your tool,” I snap. “Or your prophecy. Or your story trapped in someone else’s mouth.”
He laughs once, short, choked, unsettling. “Tell that to the river.”
The door whispers open. The Regent steps in, silent as winter. The room obeys her before she even speaks. The prisoner’s eyes go wide, then down. He shuts up like someone installed a switch in his throat.
She gives me a small nod—approval or warning, I can’t tell. With her, it’s often both.
My hands suddenly feel too hot. My heart is knocking wrong in my chest. I rise so fast the chair legs screech.
“Enough,” I say.
I leave before my control cracks in front of a man who would drink my tears like wine.
Outside, the corridor wobbles. I press my forehead to the cool stone and breathe slow. No tears. No noise. No panic the walls can hear.
The bond jumps under my skin like a spark. Cael’s presence rushes strong and wrong at once—decision, pain, stubbornness sharpened by fear.
“No,” I whisper. “Don’t.”
He doesn’t answer in words—he never does when he’s doing something foolish—but the bond tightens. A pull. A drag. A silent I will.
“Cael, don’t,” I say again, louder, palms flat against the wall. “Not now.”
He doesn’t listen. Of course he doesn’t. The bond hums like a pulled string ready to snap.
Bootsteps rush behind me. Pia skids to a stop.
“Mara—Mara, something’s happening in the Gateyard.”
“What kind of something?”
“The stupid kind,” she pants. “The Cael kind.”
My blood drops out of my body. “Where?”
“South stairs—he left the healer’s room.” Pia grabs my sleeve. “He was limping and swearing and Jax yelled and then he ran. Well, limped fast.”
I don’t wait. I sprint.
The bond yanks again—panic this time, not mine. His. A flash of pain through the tether. A flash of resolve. Another flash—intention shaped like a blade.
“Idiot,” I breathe, running harder. “Stupid, stubborn, noble idiot—”
I burst out of the tower into the courtyard. Rain needles down from a bruised sky. People scatter with armfuls of crates and ropes. The storm left everything smelling like copper and cold stone.
At the far arch, Cael limps toward the lower gate with a wrapped leg and fire in his shoulders. Two Shields try to stop him—bad idea. He shrugs one off. Jax catches up, grabs his arm, gets shaken off like a leaf.
“What are you doing?” I shout.
He stops. Barely. Turns halfway, breath sharp, face too pale. The bond vibrates like a plucked string.
“Ending this,” he says.
“No,” I say. “Not alone.”
He meets my eyes. Something raw and breaking sits there. “They’re spreading your name at the cliffs,” he says. “Calling for the Anchor. Calling for you. Every minute we delay, the city listens.”
My breath catches. “You are not walking into a trap.”
He lifts his chin. “Then walk with me.”
The world narrows. Rain. Stone. His eyes. The bond buzzing like the edge of a vow.
“No,” I say, stepping toward him. “You’re hurt. You’re barely standing.”
“I’m standing because of you.”
“That’s not permission.”
Lightning flashes at the horizon. Someone shouts orders. Bells shiver even tied down.
I step closer until our breath mixes with the storm. “You don’t get to burn for me. Not like this. Not again.”
“I’m not burning,” he says, voice low. “I’m choosing.”
“Choose to live,” I whisper.
Silence snaps tight around us.
He exhales. “Then stay close.”
I swallow. Nod. “Always.”
He reaches for my hand—stops himself—then reaches anyway, slower, as if waiting for me to pull away.
I don’t.
His fingers brush mine.
The bond flares like a struck match.