The night did not come gently.
It settled over the citadel like a weight—heavy, unyielding, pressing against every wall and window until even the torches seemed to burn more quietly.
Veyla lay awake.
Her chamber was still. Too still. The kind of stillness that made every breath sound loud, every shift of fabric echo too clearly in her ears.
The ache beneath her ribs had changed.
It was no longer sharp.
It was empty.
She pressed a hand lightly against her chest, fingers splayed as if she could hold something in place. The bond pulsed faintly, confused—reaching outward, finding nothing, recoiling.
Distance.
She had chosen it.
And it hurt more than she had expected.
Her thoughts kept circling back to the chamber. The measured rings. The way Khorg had stood unmoving, forcing instinct into obedience. The way Vinculus's presence had cooled the air, sharpened the ache.
Ten minutes.
Only ten.
And yet her body reacted as if something essential had been taken from her.
She closed her eyes.
Sleep did not come.
⸻
Khorg Ironmaw did not return to his quarters.
He paced the outer battlements instead, boots striking stone in a steady rhythm that did nothing to calm the storm inside him. The wind cut cold against his skin, carrying scents of rain, iron, and distant firewood.
None of it helped.
His wolf prowled restlessly, claws scraping against the inside of his skull.
Mate close—then gone.
The nausea was gone now, vanished the moment distance had reasserted itself. In its place was something worse: a hollow ache so deep it made his chest feel tight, breath shallow.
He preferred the sickness.
At least it meant she was near.
He leaned heavily against the parapet, head dropping forward as he exhaled roughly.
"This is weakness," he muttered to himself.
The wolf snarled in disagreement.
This is bond.
Khorg clenched his jaw.
He had survived wars. Starvation. Betrayal.
This—this quiet need—unnerved him more than any blade.
Below, the citadel slept.
Above, the moon hung low and indifferent.
He wondered, distantly, if Veyla was awake too.
⸻
Vinculus Noctaryn sat alone in his private study, candlelight flickering across polished wood and ancient tomes.
He had not moved for hours.
The emptiness in his blood gnawed steadily, a cold ache that refused to be soothed by distance or distraction. It was not hunger—not exactly—but a destabilization, a thinning of the careful equilibrium he had maintained for centuries.
He disliked unpredictability.
He despised dependency.
And yet—
His fingers tightened slowly around the stem of his glass.
The scheduled proximity had ended too cleanly.
No rupture.
No collapse.
Which meant the bond had adapted.
That troubled him far more than violence would have.
He set the glass down untouched.
Control was slipping—not because of chaos, but because of *structure*.
And structure could be exploited.
Vinculus turned his thoughts inward, calculating.
Distance caused withdrawal.
Closeness caused destabilization.
There would be a balance point.
And whoever controlled access to it would control everything.
⸻
Near dawn, Madame Zora stood in the corridor outside Veyla's chamber, listening.
She could hear the uneven breathing through the stone.
A soft smile curved her lips.
"Ah," she murmured to herself, "there it is."
She did not knock.
She did not enter.
Instead, she turned away, boots whispering softly against the floor.
Some lessons required silence.
Morning arrived without relief.
Veyla rose with the sun, movements slow, deliberate. The ache had dulled overnight, settling into a persistent weight that followed her through every step of her routine.
She dressed without assistance.
She ate without appetite.
She spoke little.
Zora finally appeared as Veyla stood by the window, staring out at the waking citadel.
"You look like someone who's learned something unpleasant," the witch said lightly.
Veyla did not turn. "Distance isn't neutral."
Zora's smile widened. "Good. You noticed."
Veyla faced her. "This isn't sustainable."
"No," Zora agreed. "But it's informative."
Veyla frowned. "About what?"
Zora studied her for a long moment, expression unreadable.
"About who breaks first," she said.
The words settled heavily.
"You," Zora continued calmly, "are not the most fragile piece in this arrangement."
Veyla's breath caught. "Then who is?"
Zora shrugged. "Depends on the day."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "But listen carefully, Princess. The seal reacts to *emotional orientation*, not just physical proximity."
Veyla stilled.
"If you ever stop feeling the ache when you pull away," Zora added softly, "that's when you should be afraid."
"Why?" Veyla asked.
Zora smiled, sharp and knowing.
"Because that's when the seal thinks you're ready."
She turned and left, boots echoing faintly down the corridor.
Veyla remained by the window, heart pounding.
Ready for what?
⸻
Khorg did not sleep.
By midmorning, his restraint had frayed into irritability, his wolf restless and aggressive beneath the surface. Every command felt heavier than it should have. Every sound grated.
Distance was wearing him down.
He realized it with a jolt of anger.
This—this slow erosion—was more dangerous than the nausea.
He found himself wanting permission.
Not to touch.
Just to be near.
The thought unsettled him deeply.
⸻
Vinculus convened a quiet meeting with his inner circle that afternoon.
"Access must be regulated," he said coolly. "Not reduced—structured."
One advisor hesitated. "By whose authority?"
Vinculus's eyes gleamed faintly. "Eventually? Mine."
He dismissed them shortly after.
As the chamber emptied, he stood alone again, staring at nothing.
This bond would not be broken.
So it would be *owned*.
⸻
As dusk approached once more, three truths settled across the citadel:
Veyla had learned that control came with loneliness.
Khorg had learned that restraint bred hunger.
And Vinculus had learned that patience could be weaponized.
Somewhere deep within the seal, something stirred—quiet, observant, waiting.