The days after Amara's strange encounter had passed in a haze.
The voice of the woman — that stranger who had called her by name in a tone laced with knowing — lingered in her thoughts like smoke that refused to clear. She hadn't told anyone about it, not even Nysa. Something inside her whispered that the moment mattered, that it was not random. But for now, she buried the memory deep, just as she had always buried everything that threatened to unravel her.
And yet, as though Myraea itself were conspiring against her, word came soon after:
The Bond Severing Ceremony would be held.
---
Amara had overheard it first. Two villagers at the water well, whispering low, as though afraid the wind might carry their words into disapproving ears.
"They say the bond between the temple-girl and the warrior is unnatural. Too much… tension."
"They think the gods will frown upon it."
"They will take her before the Elders. Let her choose the cut or the tether."
The cut or the tether.
Those words had burned themselves into Amara's chest, and she had fled from the whispers before anyone saw the tremor in her hands.
That evening, Nysa returned from the training grounds, shoulders glistening with sweat, her jaw tense. She did not meet Amara's eyes.
"It is true," Nysa said simply. "The Elders have called for it. They say we are to stand before them and decide. Either we accept the bond fully… or sever it."
Amara's heart clenched. "Sever it?"
Nysa's gaze hardened. "Yes. With the blade of Liria. The ritual that unbinds two souls."
Amara's throat tightened. She had heard of it — though only as legend. Severing a bond was not a clean act. The ribbon would be cut, but it was said that something deeper tore with it. People who underwent the severing walked away hollow, their hearts carrying a wound that never healed.
And yet, wasn't this what she wanted? Freedom from this strange tether, freedom from the warrior's gaze, freedom from the constant pull that both terrified and thrilled her?
Wasn't this the way back to the girl she had been before all this?
So why did her chest feel like it was being crushed?
---
The night of the ceremony came quickly.
The temple's inner courtyard glowed with hundreds of oil lamps, their flames trembling against the stone pillars. The air was heavy with incense, thick enough to choke. The entire village had gathered — women with their veils lowered, warriors standing like stone, Elders seated in a crescent at the head of the courtyard.
Amara stood beside Nysa, her wrists trembling though she tried to still them. A red ribbon still bound her hand to the warrior's, tied since the day of their trial. It was a thread that pulsed with something alive, something she refused to name.
"Step forward," an Elder commanded.
They obeyed.
The Elder's voice rang out across the courtyard, sharp and merciless:
"You have been tested. You have walked fire and shadow. And yet, doubts persist. The bond between you has not ripened into harmony. Thus, the gods demand resolution. Tonight, you will choose. To bind fully — or to cut."
A murmur rippled through the gathered women. Amara felt the weight of a hundred eyes, all boring into her, waiting for her to speak.
Nysa's hand tightened ever so slightly against hers. The pressure was steady, grounding, but Amara ripped her gaze away. She could not look at Nysa. Not now.
The Elder's eyes fixed on her. "Amara of the outer land, speak. What do you choose?"
---
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
She felt it again — that war raging inside her. The voice of her mother, sharp as scripture: This is wrong. This is a sin. Run, child, before you are swallowed.
And yet… the memory of Nysa tying the ribbon tighter on her wrist came unbidden. The way her scarred hands had held her, not in command, but in unspoken promise.
Her heart beat against her ribs so hard she thought it might shatter.
"I…" Amara's voice cracked. The silence of the courtyard grew suffocating.
She could not say the words. To bind meant surrender. To cut meant ruin.
"I… want freedom," she whispered at last.
A sharp cry rose from the gathered women, half in shock, half in approval.
Nysa's body went rigid beside her, though her hand did not loosen its grip.
"So be it," the Elder said grimly. "The severing shall be done."
---
The blade of Liria was brought forth.
It was unlike any weapon Amara had seen. Long and slender, its silver edge shimmered faintly as though soaked in moonlight. They said it was forged from a fragment of the first bond ever broken in Myraea, and that the pain it carried was eternal.
Two attendants approached. One held the ribbon binding Amara's hand to Nysa's; the other lifted the blade.
Amara's chest heaved. She wanted to scream that this wasn't truly what she wanted — not fully, not entirely — but her legs refused to move. Her voice was gone.
The blade rose.
In that moment, Nysa finally turned to her. Their eyes locked. For the first time, Nysa's face was stripped of its mask of steel. There was no command there, no hardness. Only raw hurt. Only plea.
Don't do this.
Amara's vision blurred. Her hand trembled violently in the warrior's grasp.
The blade came down.
---
White-hot pain seared through her wrist as the ribbon was cut. But it was not the ribbon alone that tore. Something deep inside her split open, a wound that bled soundlessly into the night. She gasped, stumbling back, clutching at her chest as though she could hold the broken pieces together.
The crowd erupted — some gasped, others cheered. To them it was done, a ritual completed, nothing more.
But Amara knew. Something inside her had been maimed.
She turned, breath ragged, and saw Nysa. The warrior's hand still outstretched, now empty, the ribbon severed and limp. Her scarred face was shadowed, unreadable — but her eyes… her eyes were a storm.
They stared at one another across the space that had once been bridged.
Amara's lips parted, as though she might say something — an apology, a cry, anything — but no sound came. The chasm between them had already formed, wide and merciless.
The Elders' voices rose, declaring the ceremony complete. The lamps flickered. The crowd dispersed.
And Amara stood there, hollow, clutching the wound no one could see, knowing she had chosen ruin and calling it freedom.
---
Later that day, alone in her quarters, she pressed her back against the wall, trembling. The severed ribbon lay crumpled on the floor.
But she could still feel it.
The ghost of Nysa's hand.
The pull that no blade could truly cut.
And deep inside, under all her fear, shame, and stubborn denial —
a seed of something darker began to grow.
The stranger's words echoed in her memory, though she had not spoken them aloud:
"You cannot sever what the gods have bound."