Chapter 7: Of Exes and Explosive Paperwork
Isadora Nightsorrow glided into the study like a judgmental storm cloud wrapped in velvet and undead ambition.
Her hair shimmered obsidian-black, her lips painted a red so deep it looked illegal, and her high-collared robes bore runes that probably screamed in ancient agony every time she blinked. In her hand, she carried a bone-white clipboard glowing with bureaucratic menace.
"Lucien," she said, her voice the verbal equivalent of an elegantly sharpened knife. "You've outdone yourself. A soul tether with a living enchantress-in-training? Bold. Illegal. Sloppy."
Lucien adjusted his robe. "Isadora, always a pleasure. And might I say, your aura is… unusually hostile today."
Maribel tried to disappear behind a stack of cursed books. She failed. The books cackled and parted like gossiping old ladies at a tea party.
"And you," Isadora said, fixing her ice-blue eyes on Maribel. "You're the chaotic variable."
"I prefer 'sparkle-brained academic anomaly,'" Maribel said with a nervous smile. "Also, hi. Love your lipstick. What shade of 'Judgment' is that?"
Isadora ignored the compliment. "Explain this bond. Now."
Lucien stepped in. "It was an accident. A tether triggered by proximity, magical interference, and a mishandled reanimation core."
Maribel raised her hand. "And maybe a little light mirror-breaking."
Isadora scribbled something ferociously on her clipboard. "The tether is glowing red-gold, which suggests unresolved convergence. Emotional entanglement."
"We're working on it," Lucien said stiffly.
"Are you?" she asked. "Because if it isn't stabilized within seventy-two hours, I'll be required to invoke Code 9-F."
"What's Code 9-F?" Maribel asked.
Lucien winced. "Forced severance. Through ritual unbinding."
"That sounds... painful."
"And extremely flammable," Isadora added with an unholy grin. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm staying in the East Wing until your mess is sorted. I'll need daily progress updates, copies of all bond correspondence, and I'm confiscating your forbidden magic collection."
Lucien's mouth opened in horror. "You wouldn't."
"I would. I have." She turned on her heel, her cloak swishing with the self-importance of someone who routinely corrected ancient spirits on grammar.
When she left, the room exhaled.
Maribel turned to Lucien. "Well, your ex is a lot."
"She once cursed a demon for using a semicolon incorrectly."
"Honestly, kind of admirable."
He groaned and collapsed into a chair. "This is a disaster. We have seventy-two hours to stabilize our bond, or we both get magically imploded and possibly turned into matching candle holders."
Maribel flopped beside him. "Then we better start kissing."
He coughed. "Excuse me?"
"You know, to stabilize. Remember the tether book? Kiss = emotional convergence. Emotional convergence = anchored bond. Simple math."
Lucien stared at her like she'd suggested marrying a basilisk. "We can't just kiss on command."
"I've kissed people for dumber reasons. Once in a game of Potion Spin."
He blinked. "That's not a game."
"It is when you're seventeen and slightly hexed on fizzy spell cider."
Lucien covered his face. "We can't. Not yet. Not while we're unsure of the emotional consequences."
Maribel raised a brow. "So... you're afraid it'll work?"
He looked away.
The tether shimmered quietly, pulling taut between them, pulsing with awkward potential.
"Well," she said, standing up. "If we're not gonna make out in the name of arcane law, what's plan B?"
Lucien sighed. "We try the alternative: emotional convergence through shared vulnerability."
"Oh no."
"Oh yes," he said. "It means sharing secrets. Real ones. Dangerous ones. And facing a fear together."
"Great," she muttered. "Let me guess—there's a spooky crypt of despair involved?"
He gave her a thin smile. "Two floors down. Bring your bravest sarcasm."
The crypt was damp, full of whispering shadows, and, for some reason, smelled faintly of cinnamon.
"I expected more doom," Maribel said.
Lucien lit a torch. "This is where I hid part of my phylactery. And my regrets."
"Are you literally hiding your regrets in jars?"
He pointed to a shelf. "Jar of Regret #14: Not learning how to dance."
She squinted. "You can't dance?"
"I shuffle with intensity."
She stifled a laugh.
They walked deeper.
The tether between them glowed warmly now, occasionally sparking when they got too close.
"So," Lucien said quietly, "you never told me what you wanted from magic. Truly."
Maribel hesitated. "Honestly? I want to make things better. Not big flashy stuff. Just... safer. Kinder. Less lonely. I used to think I'd be some glitter-slinging chaos queen. But now... I think I want to build something. A future."
Lucien looked at her, and for once, there was no sarcasm between them. Only truth.
"I became a lich to live forever," he said softly. "But eternity is… cold. Then you appeared, trailing glitter and poor impulse control, and suddenly everything isn't quiet anymore."
The tether pulsed brightly.
A jar nearby burst into pink smoke.
Lucien stared. "That was Regret #2. Never falling in love."
Maribel blinked. "Did you just say—"
He leaned in.
This time, no one interrupted.
No explosions. No ghosts. No evil future selves.
Just a kiss—soft, warm, real.
The tether glowed white-gold, spun once in the air like a firefly in flight, and melted quietly into their skin.
The bond had anchored.
When they broke apart, Maribel whispered, "So... what now?"
Lucien smiled. "Now we survive your magical messiness, my undead ex, and the next seventeen chapters."
She grinned. "I love a well-organized narrative."