The weakness returned the moment Elara stepped back.
It was a subtle drain, like a slow leak in a tire. Leonis felt a slight light-headedness, a dip in the ambient mana he could draw upon. Elara's sharp inhale told him she felt it too. The invisible tether between them had a range, and it demanded proximity.
Her uncle, Baron Vertra, watched them like a collector examining a fascinating, dangerous insect. "The bond stabilizes with closeness," he mused, tapping his chin. "And weakens with distance. A classic, if archaic, Soul Bind. The old texts say such bonds were forged in battlefield desperation… or as the ultimate punishment for traitors. To chain two souls together for eternity." He smiled. "Which are you, I wonder?"
"We are leaving," Elara stated, turning on her heel. The command was for Leonis, not a request. The pull of the bond was a physical itch, a gravitational tug he had no choice but to obey unless he wanted to collapse. He fell into step beside her, two paces behind—close enough to feel the hum of their connection stabilize, far enough to avoid touching.
They walked in furious silence out of the villa, into the pale dawn light. The Academy's grounds were still mostly empty. The tension between them was a live wire, crackling with unspoken threats and shared, unwanted sensation.
"Stop," Leonis said, his voice low. He needed control. Data. "We need to understand the parameters."
"I understand perfectly," Elara snapped, not slowing. "I am shackled to a stranger who reeks of graveyard dust and has the eyes of a century-old corpse. Parameters are irrelevant."
"Your cheek still stings," he said flatly.
She froze. Her hand flew to her face. The red mark had faded to a faint blush, but the sensation remained for both of them. "You feel it?"
"And you felt my disgust when I saw your uncle." He watched her carefully. "The bond transmits sensation and emotion. Possibly thought, if we're not careful. The range of the weakening effect is unknown. The amplification effect of touch is implied but unquantified. We are entering a warzone with a weapon we cannot wield."
She turned to face him fully, her violet eyes blazing. "You are the one who entered my warzone, regressor." She hissed the last word, testing it. She saw the minute flicker in his eyes, the confirmation. A savage grin touched her lips. "Ah. So that's it. You've lived this before. And I am the problem you came back to solve. Did you come to kill me, oh weary hero?"
Leonis didn't bother denying it. She could likely feel the truth in the echo of his intent. "The world ends because of you. In every timeline."
The words should have shocked her. Instead, she threw her head back and laughed, a short, brittle sound that held no joy. "Good. It deserves to end." Then she leaned in, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "But now, if I die, you die. Your precious world-saving mission just got very complicated, didn't it?"
He met her gaze. "And if I die, you die. Your revenge fantasy ends with a whimper. We are in a mutual destruction pact, Princess."
The truth of it settled between them, cold and hard. Hatred was a luxury they couldn't afford. Not pure, unadulterated hatred. It had to be compartmentalized, weaponized.
"Fine," she spat. "A temporary alliance. Until we find a way to sever this… thing. But you will follow my lead in the court. You know the future? I know the present. I know every snake in that garden, their debts, their desires. You are a foreign body here. They will eat you alive."
"And you are a pariah they tolerate out of fear and bloodline," Leonis countered. "Together, we are an unknown. A threat. Your uncle already sees us as a tool. The Empire will see us as a weapon or a disease to be purged."
A bell tolled in the distance, signaling the start of the Academy's day. The sound seemed to decide something for Elara. "We need a public demonstration. To control the narrative before my uncle spins his web. Follow my lead. And touch me."
The last words were said with such revulsion it vibrated through the bond. Leonis felt it as his own.
"Why?"
"To test the amplification. And to show them we are… aligned." The word tasted foul in her mouth.
Hesitantly, Leonis extended his hand. Not for a handshake, but to place his palm on the back of her offered hand. The moment skin met skin, it was like throwing a switch.
A surge of power, raw and electric, flooded both of them. The air around them shimmered. Elara's dormant, chaotic mana and Leonis's disciplined, time-hardened energy didn't merge—they resonated, creating a harmonic frequency that multiplied their individual output. A sphere of faint, shimmering light, visible only to the mana-sensitive, pulsed around their joined hands.
Elara's eyes widened. She flexed her free hand, and a perfect, intricate snowflake of ice crystallized in her palm instantly, without incantation. It was a parlor trick, a beginner's spell, but the speed and precision were master-level. Leonis, with his other hand, gestured. A tiny, stabilized gravity well, a complex bit of spatial magic, formed above his finger, holding a pebble in silent orbit.
One hundred times. The "Mana Resonance" was real, and the multiplier was staggering.
But with it came the flood. Her simmering rage at her uncle, her deep-seated loneliness, her twisted satisfaction at seeing his shock. His profound exhaustion, his cold focus on the endgame, his lingering pity for her. It was a violent, intimate cocktail of psyche.
They broke the contact simultaneously, gasping. The pebble fell. The snowflake melted.
"Disgusting," Elara breathed, wiping her hand on her dress.
"Efficient," Leonis corrected, his mind already racing through tactical applications. Fighting while holding hands. Sharing a saddle. Back-to-back in a siege. The possibilities were militarily profound. And personally horrifying.
The narrative, as Elara predicted, was set by dinner.
They were summoned to the Headmaster's office, a room of stern portraits and tactical maps. Baron Vertra was there, looking pleased. So was Headmaster Goran, a bear of a man with a famed war-record and a politician's eyes. A scribe from the Imperial Chancery stood in the corner, quill poised.
"The Empire has taken an interest in this… anomaly," Headmaster Goran began, his voice gravelly. "A Soul Bind of this purity hasn't been seen in three centuries. The military application is self-evident. The political implications are… delicate."
"Princess Elara is of the direct imperial line," the Baron said smoothly. "This bond, left unregulated, is a risk. Her safety, and the stability of her unique power, are paramount. The young man, Leonis Vayne… his lineage is minor nobility, but his mana signature is remarkably compatible. It is a blessing from the Mana Springs themselves."
It was a pretty lie. Leonis's power was compatible because it had been forged in the fires of apocalypse, again and again.
"The Chancery proposes a solution," the Headmaster said, not meeting Elara's eyes. "A formal betrothal. A Bond-Sanctified Union. This will legalize the co-habitation required to maintain your stability. It will bring the bond under Imperial oversight and protection. It will also… neutralize certain rumors before they begin."
Rumors. Of an illegitimate bond. Of a scandal. Of a weapon loose in the Academy.
Elara's face was a mask of porcelain calm. Leonis felt the earthquake beneath it through the bond—a torrent of humiliation, fury, and a dark, cynical amusement. See, the emotion seemed to whisper to him, this is the cage.
"And if we refuse?" Elara asked, her voice sweet as poisoned honey.
The Headmaster's expression hardened. "Then the Bond will be declared a hazardous magical anomaly. You will both be taken into protective custody at a Magical Research facility for… study. Indefinitely."
A gilded cage or a laboratory cell. Those were the choices.
Leonis saw the paths fork. The facility would mean isolation, experimentation, no chance to stop the coming threats. The marriage was a shackle, but it was a shackle that allowed movement. It was the only path that kept them on the board.
He spoke for the first time. "We understand the Empire's… concern. We accept the betrothal."
Elara's head whipped towards him. He felt her betrayal, sharp as a knife. But beneath it, he also felt her reluctant, grinding agreement. She saw the same calculus.
She turned back, her smile flawless and empty. "Of course. For the stability of the Realm."
The decree was signed there and then. The betrothal was official. The wedding was set for one week hence—a rushed, political ceremony.
As they left the office, the bond thrumming with their shared, seething resentment, Elara walked close. Not touching, but near enough that their sleeves brushed.
"You will regret this," she whispered, her tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. "I will make every moment of this farce a living hell for you, regressor."
Leonis stared straight ahead, his voice equally low, equally calm. "And I will use you and this bond to save the world you want to destroy, villainess. Your hell will have to get in line."
That night, in the small, secure apartment the Academy provisioned for them—together, as per the new rules—they faced their first practical test.
One bed.
A large, canopied imperial bed.
Elara stood on one side, arms crossed. Leonis stood on the other, examining the room's single window and door.
"I'll take the floor," he said.
The moment he unrolled a spare blanket and lay down, the weakness began. It was slow, but insidious. A draining fatigue. A mana deficiency headache began to bloom behind his eyes. From the bed, he heard Elara's sharp sigh. She felt it too.
"This is untenable," she hissed into the dark.
"Physical contact amplifies. Proximity maintains. The floor is… likely beyond the stable range."
A long, hate-filled silence.
Then the sound of rustling sheets. "Get in. Stay on your side. If you touch me, I will sever the part of you that touches me."
Leonis got up. The weakness receded as he approached the bed. He lay down on the far edge, stiff as a board. A full foot of cold, empty linen stretched between them.
The shared sensations softened into a low hum. Her tension was a tight string. His analytical calm was a cold lake. They bled into each other, creating a strange, dissonant emotional chord.
They lay there, two enemies, bound soul-to-soul, staring at the same canopy in the dark, listening to the echo of each other's heartbeat—the only sound in the world that promised both survival and ruin.
The wedding was in seven days. The war had already begun.