Night did not bring rest.
It brought awareness.
Princess Veyla Aurelion lay awake on a narrow bed that smelled faintly of stone and old linen, staring at the ceiling as the hours dragged past without mercy. The chamber had been prepared hastily—clean, proper, respectful—but nothing in it belonged to her.
Not the bed.
Not the silence.
Not even her own breath.
She inhaled slowly.
The ache answered.
It pulsed beneath her ribs like a second heartbeat, dull at first, then sharper when she shifted even slightly. The bond—if that was what it was—had not diminished with distance.
It had grown louder.
She turned onto her side, pressing her palm against the mattress as if grounding herself. Her scent lingered in the room, heavier now that the air had cooled. It curled around her senses, unfamiliar in its intensity.
Not unpleasant to her.
But charged.
She closed her eyes.
And immediately—
Khorg.
The image came unbidden. Not a memory, not a dream, but an impression so vivid it stole her breath. Broad shoulders tense with restraint. Golden eyes darkened by pain. The sound of a low growl swallowed before it could escape.
Her chest tightened.
"No," she whispered to the empty room.
Across the citadel, Alpha Khorg Ironmaw paced.
The chamber assigned to him was larger, built for a warlord rather than a guest, but it felt just as suffocating. He had stripped off his armor hours ago, tossed it aside like a useless weight, yet his skin still crawled as if trapped beneath metal.
His wolf paced with him, restless, snarling.
*Twelve hours,* the instinct repeated.
*Too long.*
Khorg dragged a hand through his hair, claws flexing, retracting, flexing again. The distance was doing its work now—his stomach no longer churned, the corrosive edge of her scent reduced to a phantom memory.
Relief should have followed.
Instead, his chest felt hollow.
The bond pulled like a hooked chain, not forward toward her body, but inward, toward something vulnerable he had not exposed in years. Each step he took away from her presence felt like tearing something loose inside him.
He stopped abruptly.
His nose twitched.
The scent wasn't here.
And yet—
His lungs burned as if they were.
He bent forward slightly, bracing his hands on the table, breathing hard.
"This is wrong," he muttered.
His wolf snapped back, furious and wounded.
*Mate.*
Khorg slammed his fist into the wood, cracking it clean through.
Across the citadel's upper tower, Vinculus Noctaryn stood at the open balcony doors, watching the moon carve silver lines across the stone.
Sleep was a suggestion.
A habit, not a need.
And yet tonight, stillness refused him.
He had changed twice already—fresh robes, immaculate each time—yet the sensation persisted, crawling beneath his skin like a stain that refused to be washed away.
Absence.
The lack of her presence made his blood feel… thin.
He lifted a crystal decanter and poured himself a measure of dark red wine, swirling it slowly. The scent rose—rich, refined, familiar.
It did nothing.
His jaw tightened.
*Pathetic,* he thought.
Centuries of control, of ritualized hunger and restraint, undone by a girl whose scent offended every aristocratic instinct he possessed.
And yet—
His mind drifted back to the way her eyes had lifted in the council chamber. Calm. Defiant. Unyielding.
Not pleading.
Never pleading.
He took a sip.
The wine tasted dull.
He set the glass aside untouched.
*This is contamination,* he told himself coldly.
*Withdrawal, nothing more.*
But withdrawal implied dependency.
And dependency implied weakness.
Vinculus turned away from the moon, cloak whispering softly behind him.
"I will outlast this," he said aloud.
The echo did not argue.
Back in her chamber, Veyla sat up slowly.
Lying still had become unbearable.
The ache had sharpened into something restless, a pressure that made her skin feel too tight, her thoughts too loud. She wrapped her arms around herself, fingers digging lightly into her sleeves.
The rules echoed in her mind.
No proximity under five paces.
No separation beyond twelve hours.
How long had it been?
She glanced toward the narrow window. The moon hung low, pale and watchful.
Half the night, perhaps.
Too soon for relief.
Her breath hitched suddenly.
The pull surged.
Not pain.
Longing.
She pressed her forehead against her knees, heart pounding.
"This isn't real," she whispered. "It can't be."
But her body disagreed.
Somewhere beyond these walls, she could feel them—not as thoughts or voices, but as presence. Distant. Strained. Alive.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her gown.
She had been trained for sacrifice.
For duty.
For silence.
No one had trained her for this.
A soft knock broke the stillness.
Veyla's head snapped up.
The door opened without waiting for her answer.
Madame Zora slipped inside, carrying a small tray laden with a teapot and two mismatched cups.
"You're awake," the witch said mildly. "Good. I was getting bored."
Veyla stared at her. "It's past midnight."
Zora set the tray down and poured herself a cup. "Curses don't care about bedtime."
She glanced at Veyla's posture, the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers trembled slightly.
"Withdrawal's starting," Zora said.
Veyla swallowed. "It feels like I'm missing something."
Zora snorted. "You are."
She took a sip of tea, grimaced, and added sugar without apology.
"Your body thinks it completed a circuit," Zora continued. "Bond formed. Anchor recognized. Then—cut."
Veyla's chest tightened. "So this pain—"
"—is your system protesting," Zora finished. "Same as theirs."
Veyla closed her eyes briefly. "Can it kill us?"
Zora considered.
"Eventually," she said. "If left unmanaged."
Veyla's eyes flew open.
Zora waved a hand. "Relax. You're not there yet. But this"—she gestured vaguely—"is why the rules exist."
She leaned closer, lowering her voice.
"Distance keeps your bodies intact. Proximity keeps your minds intact. Balance is… unpleasant."
Veyla hugged herself tighter. "They're suffering."
Zora tilted her head. "So are you."
"That's not the same."
Zora's gaze sharpened. "It is. You just don't value yourself enough to count it."
The words landed harder than any threat.
Veyla looked away.
Zora sighed softly. "Sleep if you can. Tomorrow gets worse."
She rose, pausing at the door.
"Oh," she added casually, "if either of them tries to break the twelve-hour rule tonight, it won't be subtle."
Veyla's heart skipped.
"They wouldn't," she said quickly.
Zora smiled—knowing, sharp.
"Of course not," she said. "They're very disciplined."
The door closed.
Silence returned.
Heavier now.
Veyla lay back down slowly, staring into the dark as the ache pulsed on, steady and insistent.
Somewhere beyond stone and distance, two immortal beings lay awake as well, bodies intact, minds unraveling.
Twelve hours had never felt so long.