The morning haze had begun to lift as Eliakim and Gideon walked the winding path back to the Darkmoor residence. Skyling glided silently above, casting iridescent glimmers over the treetops. The village stirred with quiet industry, its people beginning to recover from the chaos of the days before. Eliakim, still carrying the weight of justice served and revelations discovered, glanced at his newest companion walking beside him.
Gideon Ravenscar walked with silent steps, even as his bare feet touched gravel and dirt. He stood only slightly taller than Eliakim, broad-shouldered and lean with muscle earned through years of forced labor. His skin was pale bronze, his face shaped with sharp cheekbones and a firm jaw. But it was his fur—thick, steel-gray, and coarse like a winter wolf's—that ran along his forearms, collarbone, and the backs of his hands, that marked him not fully human. A half-lycan, Gideon bore no fangs, claws, or snout—only the visible traces of a lineage he rarely spoke of.
His eyes were another matter: bright amber with slitted pupils, sharp as blades and constantly moving, watching, reading. Despite the trauma he bore, he walked tall, wearing his new freedom like a mantle.
When they entered the cottage, Seraphine was setting the table with care. The warm scent of roasted root vegetables, garlic broth, and honeyed bread wafted through the air. She looked up and saw them.
Her eyes widened at the sight of Gideon. "Eliakim?"
"Mother, this is Gideon Ravenscar," Eliakim said gently. "I found him locked in a box under the merchant's caravan. He was sold into slavery."
Seraphine's eyes softened with horror and pity. Gideon bowed low, respectfully.
"Ma'am," he said, voice scratchy but sincere.
"Come, sit. You both must be exhausted."
As soon as Gideon sat at the table, his restraint broke. He devoured everything with a hunger so feral that both Eliakim and Seraphine watched in stunned silence. He tore through the stew, the bread, even licking the honey from his fingers.
"By the gods..." Eliakim muttered, stunned.
Gideon flushed with embarrassment but did not stop until his stomach finally accepted fullness. He sat back, dazed and drowsy from warmth and food.
Seraphine placed a hand on his shoulder. "How long were you starving, child?"
"...Too long," Gideon whispered. "Most days, it was just scraps. Sometimes nothing."
Eliakim folded his arms. "Gideon told me his story. Pirates destroyed his village. He was hidden by his mother and taken after she was captured. Sold to that merchant."
Seraphine's expression darkened, then softened again as she turned to Gideon.
"You're safe here," she said. "No more chains. No more cages."
"Thank you," Gideon said, eyes moist. He turned to Eliakim, his voice firmer now.
"Eliakim, I pledge my loyalty to you. My life is yours to command. You saved me not just from a box, but from becoming something I wasn't meant to be. I swear it, on my blood."
Eliakim looked into his eyes and saw truth, not obligation. A chosen bond.
He nodded. "I accept your loyalty—but we walk as brothers, not master and servant."
Gideon lowered his head in solemn agreement.
At that moment, the chain of the Collar of Veyrun—the talon-shaped relic hanging from Eliakim's thumb—began to hum faintly. It shimmered, barely visible to anyone else, and pulsed with a faint golden light.
A single thread of its energy reached out invisibly, like a whisper of fate, and touched Gideon's chest.
He didn't feel it.
But Eliakim did.
His mind registered a sudden awareness—a new tether, like a spiritual thread gently tying Gideon's presence to his own. It wasn't overpowering. It was subtle, like knowing where the sun would rise, or when rain would fall. A bond had formed.
The Collar of Veyrun had chosen to extend its protection.
Now, Eliakim could feel when Gideon was near or far. If his comrade fell into danger, he would know. If his emotions spiked with terror, rage, or pain, Eliakim would feel it echo through the chain.
Unspoken, unseen, but undeniable.
Seraphine, unaware of the magic taking root between them, smiled at the sight of the two boys.
"You may have started your journey alone, Eliakim," she said softly, "but fate seems determined to fill your path with those worth walking beside."
Skyling nestled on a windowsill, watching the exchange with glowing eyes. She gave a low, satisfied trill.
That night, as stars lit the sky like scattered embers, Eliakim sat by his window. The bracelet was still now, but he could feel the new bond like a warm thread in his chest.
Gideon slept peacefully in the guest room.
Eliakim closed his eyes.
The road ahead was dark and winding—but for the first time, he did not feel alone.