The Concord Spire did not permit chaos. Its white marble floors were polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the cool, filtered light from enchanted crystal panels in the vaulted ceilings.
The air tasted of clean ozone and ancient vellum, a sterile scent that Kaelen had always associated with purpose and order. Now, it felt like a violation.
Every hushed footfall, every disciplined nod from a passing Warden, was a judgment on the smudged, defiant woman tethered to his side.
Lyra was a slash of vibrant, untamed color in his monochrome world. Her dark hair was still damp from the rain, her clothes were worn, and a smirk played on her lips as she took in the Spire’s grandeur with theatrical disdain.
She walked with a slight, deliberate swagger that forced Kaelen to adjust his own rigid stride, a constant, irritating reminder of the invisible chain that bound them.
“Impressive,” she murmured, her voice a low purr that was entirely too loud in the hallowed hall.
“All this stone and self-importance. Do you have to polish your own boots, or is there a designated boot-polishing mage for that?”
“Silence,” Kaelen bit out, his jaw tight. He could feel the eyes of his colleagues on him.
He, Warden Thorne, the model of control and efficiency, was dragging a notorious chaos-wielder through the heart of the Concord as if she were a misbehaving pet. Worse, a pet he couldn’t let off its leash.
He tried to lengthen his stride, to put distance between the whispers and his own burning humiliation, but a sharp, searing agony shot up his arm and exploded behind his eyes. He gasped, stumbling, and the pain was echoed in a sharp hiss from Lyra.
She clutched her own arm, her face pale, the smirk finally gone. For a flicker of a second, he saw his own shock and agony reflected in her wide, dark eyes.
“Forgot about our little bond, Warden?” she rasped, her voice strained. “Try to run from me, and we both pay the price.”
The pain subsided as quickly as it had come, leaving a phantom throb and the metallic taste of burnt magic on his tongue. He straightened his uniform, his movements stiff.
The shared experience did nothing to foster camaraderie; it only deepened his resentment. He was trapped, not just with her, but within her sphere of pain.
“I am not running,” he said, his voice dangerously low.
“I am escorting you to Elder Maeve. And you will conduct yourself with respect.”
Lyra laughed, a short, bitter sound. “Respect? For the people who raid homes in the dead of night and call it ‘keeping the peace’? You’ll be waiting a long time, Warden.”
He ignored her, focusing on the ornate, silver-inlaid doors of the Elder’s chambers. He had sent a magical missive ahead, a brief, sterile report of the ambush and the… complication.
He dreaded this meeting more than any duel. Explaining failure was one thing; explaining this bizarre, intimate catastrophe was another entirely.
The doors swung open silently at his approach. Elder Maeve’s office was a sanctuary of order, the scent of dried herbs and old books a comforting balm.
Sunlight streamed through a large, arched window, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. Maeve sat behind a vast desk of dark, polished wood, her silver hair coiled in an intricate, perfect braid.
She looked up, her expression serene, though her sharp, intelligent eyes missed nothing.
“Warden Thorne,” she said, her voice calm as a still lake. “Come in.”
Her gaze flickered to Lyra, taking in the defiant posture and the invisible, agonizing link between them.
A flicker of something—surprise? concern?—crossed her features.
“Elder,” Kaelen said, inclining his head. It was an awkward gesture, made clumsy by Lyra’s pointed refusal to do the same.
“I am here to report. The mission was successful in its primary objective. Lyra Valerius is in custody.”
“So I see,” Maeve said, her eyes lingering on the scant few feet of air separating them.
“But your missive mentioned an attack. And this… unusual situation.”
Lyra shifted, testing the boundary. Kaelen felt a faint, warning tingle, and instinctively moved with her, a graceless, forced dance.
He felt a hot flush of anger creep up his neck.
“We were ambushed during transport,” Kaelen reported, forcing himself to stick to the facts.
“Masked assailants. Their magic was strong, but their goal seemed to be distraction.
A third party, unseen, cast the binding curse.”
Maeve rose, her silken robes whispering against the floor. She circled her desk, her movements fluid and deliberate.
She stopped a careful distance away, her brow furrowed in a mask of scholarly concern.
“A binding curse? Of this nature? It’s archaic. Brutal. To inflict shared pain… the caster would need a profound understanding of sympathetic magic.”
She looked from Kaelen’s rigid form to Lyra’s simmering defiance. “And you have no idea who was responsible?”
“None, Elder. They vanished as soon as the spell was cast.”
“How inconvenient,” Maeve murmured, tapping a long, elegant finger against her chin. She feigned her shock perfectly, Kaelen thought.
She was the picture of a leader grappling with an unprecedented crisis. “And the curse’s limits? You’ve tested them?”
“Only accidentally,” Kaelen admitted, the memory of the white-hot pain still fresh.
“It hurts,” Lyra spoke up, her voice sharp. “Like being ripped apart from the inside out. Satisfied?”
Maeve’s gaze settled on her. It was not unkind, but it was dissecting, analytical.
“I am sorry for what you’re enduring, child. Both of you. This is a barbaric act.”
She turned back to Kaelen.
“Clearly, a standard holding cell is out of the question. We cannot separate you.”
The full weight of the situation settled in Kaelen’s stomach like a block of ice. No cell. No dungeon.
No handing her off to the Containment Ward. He was her jailer, and her cell.
“Then what are our orders, Elder?” he asked, the words tasting like ash.
Maeve paced back to the window, gazing out at the pristine spires of Aethel.
“Your primary investigation, Warden. The plague. You were making progress before this assignment, were you not?”
The mention of the plague sent a familiar pang of grief and fury through him. Elara. Her pale, sleeping face.
“I was,” he confirmed.
“This plague is a manifestation of corrupted magic. Some believe it’s chaotic in nature, a random, tragic blight upon our city,” Maeve continued, turning back to face them.
Her eyes gleamed with a sudden, shrewd intensity. “And now, fate, in its own cruel way, has tethered you to the most infamous chaos-wielder in Aethel.”
Kaelen saw where this was going. The idea was so preposterous, so utterly against every tenet of the Concord, that he almost laughed.
“Elder, you cannot be suggesting…”
“Why not?” Maeve countered smoothly.
“You are bound to her. You cannot proceed with your investigation without her, and she cannot be imprisoned in any conventional sense. Two problems, Warden Thorne, that may form a single, elegant solution.”
“A solution?” Lyra scoffed, crossing her arms.
“You want to use me? Your trained dog needs a bloodhound, is that it?”
“I want to stop a plague that is killing our people,” Maeve said, her voice hardening with authority.
“Your… unique perspective on magical theory, Miss Valerius, could be invaluable. You sense things a Warden, trained in the rigid structures of Order, might miss. Kaelen will continue his investigation, officially. And you will be his partner.”
The word hung in the air, grotesque and unbelievable. Partner.
“Absolutely not,” Kaelen and Lyra said in unison. They glanced at each other, a shared spark of revulsion passing between them, before turning back to Maeve.
“I will not work with a criminal,” Kaelen stated, his voice ringing with conviction.
“And I wouldn’t be caught dead helping the Concord,” Lyra spat. “Find your own cure.”
Maeve’s expression didn’t waver. “You misunderstand,” she said, her voice dropping, losing its warmth and leaving only cold, unyielding steel.
“This is not a request. Warden Thorne, your sister is in our infirmary. This is the only viable path to finding a cure for what ails her. Do you wish to abandon that?”
Kaelen flinched as if struck. Maeve knew his weakness, the driving force behind his every action. Elara.
The choice was no choice at all. He felt the fight drain out of him, replaced by a grim, soul-crushing resolve.
“And you, Miss Valerius,” Maeve continued, turning her full attention to Lyra.
“Your options are simple. You can cooperate with Warden Thorne, here in the city, with a certain measure of freedom afforded by this… leash.”
She gestured to the space between them.
“Or, we can find a way to restrain you both in a deep-level containment cell indefinitely. A small, dark room, for a very, very long time. I assure you, our curse-breakers will find a way. Eventually. Do you think you’ll enjoy the Warden’s company then?”
Lyra’s jaw clenched. Her dark eyes flashed with pure hatred, but she was cornered.
A cage was a cage, but a cell in the bowels of the Spire was a fate worse than death. The silence stretched, thick with tension.
Finally, Lyra let out a breath, her shoulders slumping in a mockery of defeat.
“Fine,” she ground out. “But I’m not doing it for you. Or for the Concord.”
“Your motivations are your own,” Maeve said, a faint, triumphant smile touching her lips.
“All I require are results. Warden, she is your responsibility now. See to it that she has quarters. I expect your first report by week’s end.”
Dismissed, Kaelen turned, the movement jerky. He pulled Lyra along with him, the curse a hot, ever-present reality.
They walked out of the office and the grand doors swung shut behind them, sealing their fate.
They stood in the empty hall, the silence between them now heavier than ever. They were no longer just Warden and prisoner.
They were a team. A weapon. A mockery of everything Kaelen stood for.
“Quarters?” Lyra asked, her voice dripping with venomous sarcasm.
“Don’t tell me. I get to stay in your impeccably neat, soul-crushingly boring rooms, don’t I?”
Kaelen didn’t answer. He simply started walking down the corridor that led to his personal wing of the Spire.
Every step felt like a march toward his own personal hell. She was right, of course.
There was nowhere else for her to go. His sanctuary of order, the one place he could retreat from the chaos of the world, was about to be invaded.
And he was dragging the invasion in himself, bound to it by a chain he could not see, and a curse he could not break.