Page 3 of Chains of Love

Dropping his hand, he huffs. "Fine."

2

DARAK

Through the dense treeline, I watch the Purna demon struggle with the flint, cursing under her breath as sparks refuse to catch. The bond tugs at my chest like an invisible chain, making my skin crawl. One minute I'd been leading a charge against the Sunspire forces, and the next—here, bound to this incompetent human who can't even start a proper fire.

I pace, each step releasing my mounting frustration into the soil. The leather of my armor creaks as I move, a familiar comfort among all this strangeness.

She sits cross-legged by the pathetic pile of kindling, and I take the moment to study her properly. Her hair catches the moonlight—a deep auburn that reminds me of the ceremonial wines back home. It falls in waves past her shoulders, framing a face that's all sharp angles and determination. High cheekbones, full lips pressed into concentration, and eyes that shift between green and gold depending on how the light hits them. The scratch I left on her cheek has already healed, leaving behind a faint pink line that will likely be gone by morning.

Her clothes are practical—dark leathers and sturdy boots—but there's an otherworldly quality to how she moves, too fluidfor a mere human. The Purna blood, no doubt. Demon, human, or something in between, she's still my ticket out of this mess.

"Are you going to lurk in the shadows all night, or would you like to make yourself useful?" She doesn't look up from her task, but there's an edge to her voice that suggests she's well aware of my scrutiny.

I lean against a tree, folding my arms. "I thought you were capable of significant power. Isn't that how you dragged me from my battlefield?"

"It's not my fault the kindling is wet from today's rain," she snaps.

A sharp snap echoes through the clearing, and suddenly flames leap to life beneath her fingers. The Purna's lips curl into a satisfied smile as she feeds twigs and larger branches into the growing fire. The orange glow dances across her face, making those strange eyes of hers glitter like cat's eyes in the dark.

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since before the battle. "Got any food in those fancy robes of yours?"

She shakes her head, not bothering to look up from the fire. "I wasn't exactly planning a feast when I summoned you."

"Useless," I mutter, pushing away from the tree. "I'll find something myself."

I ignore whatever retort she gives head into the woods. The undergrowth crunches beneath my boots as I search for signs of game. The moon provides enough light to track by, but the forest is quiet. Too quiet. No rustling of small creatures, no night birds calling.

The thought strikes me – how far can I actually go? The bond tugs at my chest like a physical thing, pulsing with each heartbeat, but maybe... maybe if I push through it...

I change direction, moving away from the camp with purpose now. Twenty paces. Thirty. The pressure builds slowly at first, like the weight of armor after a long march, settling acrossmy shoulders and pressing down. By fifty paces, it's harder to breathe, each inhale a struggle against the constricting force. At seventy, my legs start to shake, muscles trembling as if I've fought through an entire battle.

I press on, gritting my teeth against the invisible force crushing my ribcage. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the cool night air, trickling down my temples and stinging my eyes. The bond stretches taut as a bowstring, thrumming with dark energy, each step forward becoming a battle of will against her magic. My boots drag through the fallen leaves, every inch gained a small victory against the witch's constraints.

"Damn her," I wheeze, dropping to one knee. The pressure threatens to collapse my chest entirely. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.

She wasn't lying about the binding, at least.

I turn back, each step easier than the last as the pressure in my chest eases. Something feels off though—a warrior's instinct that's kept me alive through centuries of combat. The forest's silence takes on a new meaning.

Voices drift through the trees, rough and unfamiliar. Male voices. My hand finds the hilt of my blade as I slip between shadows, moving closer to our camp. The firelight flickers through the branches, casting dancing shadows that work to my advantage.

"—fetch a nice price in Ravencross," a gravelly voice says. "Purna blood's worth more than gold these days."

"If she is one," another responds. "Could just be some human bitch playing dress-up."

I edge around a thick oak, getting my first clear view of the scene. Four men, dressed in mismatched leather and carrying an assortment of poorly maintained weapons. Raiders, and not particularly skilled ones. Lirien's bound to a tree, silver hair falling across her face. Her eyes catch the firelight, and fora moment, they flash with something that looks almost like... amusement?

"I assure you," she says, her voice steady despite her position, "I'm worth far more than you imagine."

One of the raiders backhands her across the face. The bond in my chest flares hot with sudden rage—not mine, hers—and I have to wonder: how did someone powerful enough to tear me from a battlefield end up tied to a tree by common bandits?

"Quiet, bitch," the raider snarls. "We'll find out what you're worth soon enough."

I unsheathe my blade in one fluid motion, the metal singing as it cuts through the air. Two of the raiders drop before they even register my presence, their heads rolling across the forest floor. The remaining pair stumble back, eyes wide with dawning horror.

A laugh bubbles up from my chest, deep and genuine. "Humans? All this fuss over common humans?"

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