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RHAEGAR

S he doesn’t follow.

Good.

I need distance.

Not from her, gods, never from her, but from what she just did. What she survived. What she awakened . Watching Nora channel that wild, untamed storm inside her was like watching the birth of something dangerous and beautiful. It wasn’t just magic.

It was power.

And it wasn’t Medea’s.

It was hers.

I walk deeper into the ruins, deeper than I ever meant to go. These streets are carved from memory, each alleyway brimming with echoes of a time I’d buried. Of lives I’d taken. Of a past I never wanted to see again.

But the city remembers.

The deeper I explore, the more intact things become. Arches hold firm overhead. Doorways still bear the marks of occupancy—long abandoned but untouched by time. The air changes here. It thickens, hums, becomes alive with the weight of magic left behind.

Then I see it—carved into the stone wall of a half-collapsed sanctum.

A symbol.

Old. Crude. Bleeding black.

Three interlocked crescents, broken down the center. My breath catches, my claws flex.

The mark of the Wraithborn.

My stomach twists.

I move closer, and the stone flares faintly as if sensing my presence. Glyphs shimmer into visibility—an ancient ward, hiding more than it protects. With a sharp pulse of my magic, the illusion breaks.

Behind it is a chamber. Cold. Reverent. A shrine to something dark and long-forgotten.

And there on the far wall, etched in blood that refuses to fade—is a record.

A memory.

A curse.

It’s not just history. It’s a warning.

There, in script only the old warriors would know, I read it aloud to myself, each word like a blade in the gut.

“ By blood and bone, she made the pact.

By fire and soul, she broke the world.

By name and binding, she shall be reclaimed.

Medea, O Bride of the Bound, you are Ours. ”

I stagger back, heart hammering, bile rising.

Nora. Medea. She— they —made a pact with the Wraithborn.

And worse… it wasn’t to destroy them.

The truth crashes into me, cold and cruel: she didn’t just betray me in the past. She chose them. She bound herself to them.

And they’re coming to collect.

My fists clench, talons slicing into my own palms. The scent of my blood fills the chamber, thick and iron-sweet.

I should tell her. Warn her.

But the image of her standing there, shoulders squared, mouth bloodied from the beast’s attack, triumphant—flashes in my mind, and something darker curls beneath my ribs.

Jealousy.

Not of the power. Not even of the Wraithborn.

But of the connection .

They think she belongs to them.

She doesn’t.

She’s mine.

And gods help me, I’ll rip the world apart before I let them touch her.

I stand in that chamber a moment longer, staring at the shrine like it might blink first. My pulse throbs in my throat. The air is cold now, colder than it should be, like the memory of their presence is enough to drain the warmth from this place.

A plan begins to take shape.

A reckless one. A dangerous one.

But it’s the only way.

If the Wraithborn believe the pact still holds, then Nora’s not just marked. She’s claimed . And if I don’t sever that bond, they’ll tear her apart trying to reclaim what they believe is theirs.

And if she remembers why she made that pact in the first place…?

She might let them.

No. I won’t allow it.

She’s changing, unraveling by inches. I notice it in the flicker of her eyes and as her magic lurches toward violence now instead of healing. In the way she looked at that beast today—not with fear, but with hunger.

Should I tell her?

If I do, it’ll drive her closer to them.

And if that happens… I might lose her to the very war she helped end.

But what if I have no choice but to tell her?

I press a hand to the wall one last time, whispering an ancient phrase I haven’t said in centuries. It’s a prayer. Or maybe a curse.

Then I turn and walk back through the silence, planning the next steps.

I’ll have to find the root of the blood pact. Sever it. Destroy the sigil. Break the chain that ties her to the Wraithborn once and for all.

Even if it kills me, or her .