Page 32 of Grin and Bear It

“You’ll never belong,” a voice whispered in her memory. “Too different. Too strange.”

The scene shifted. A teenage boy stood in a massive office, staring at a portrait of a stern-faced man. The weight of expectation settled on his young shoulders like a cloak.

“They’re gone,” someone said softly. “You have to be the man of the family now.”

Grief and responsibility intertwined, crushing him with their combined power.

Thora jolted awake, disoriented. The dreams felt impossibly real—especially disturbing because the second dream wasn’t hers. She’d never seen that office or that portrait, yet she recalled every detail with perfect clarity.

Across the room, Artair sat upright in bed, his expression mirroring her confusion.

“The orphanage rooftop,” he said quietly. “You used to stargaze there.”

Thora’s breath caught. “How did you know that?”

“I saw it. In my dream.” His eyes searched hers in the moonlight. “Just like you saw my father’s office after the accident.”

“That’s impossible.” But even as she denied it, Thora knew he spoke the truth. Somehow, they had shared dreams—experienced each other’s most vulnerable memories.

“The tether,” Artair murmured, glancing at the golden cord connecting them. “It’s doing more than just keeping us physically close.”

A shiver of unease—or was it excitement?—ran through her. “This is...”

“Extraordinary,” he finished.

Their eyes met across the room, a new understanding forming between them. The magical bond had breached barriers more personal than physical space—it had opened a window between their very minds.

In that moment of shared vulnerability, Thora felt more exposed than if she’d stood naked before him. He’d seen her childhood loneliness, the deep-rooted fear of abandonment that she’d buried beneath years of independence.

And somehow, impossibly, she’d witnessed his pain too—the crushing responsibility that had fallen on him too young, the grief he carried beneath his confident exterior.

“Did you...” she began hesitantly, “Did you see anything else?”

Artair’s gaze remained steady. “Fragments. A caretaker who told you stories about constellations. The first time you shifted and how terrified you were.”

Thora nodded slowly. “I saw your parents’ funeral. The way you held your sister’s hand the whole time.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken emotion.

“This isn’t normal,” Thora finally said, wrapping her arms around herself. The T-shirt suddenly seemed too thin, too revealing. “Even for magical mishaps.”

“No,” Artair agreed. “It’s not.”

The tether pulsed gently between them as if responding to their conversation. Its golden light cast soft shadows across theroom, creating an intimate bubble that seemed separated from the rest of the world.

“We should try to sleep,” Artair suggested, though his tone lacked conviction. “Tomorrow, we’ll figure this out.”

“Right,” Thora nodded, lying back on the daybed.

She closed her eyes but remained acutely aware of Artair across the room—not just his physical presence, but something deeper, a new awareness that hadn’t existed before their shared dreams. His emotions brushed against her consciousness like whispers: concern, confusion, and underneath it all, a strange comfort at not being alone with his memories anymore.

She wondered if he could sense her feelings too, and what he might find there.

THIRTY-ONE

Morning light streamed through the cabin windows when Artair next opened his eyes. For a moment, he remained perfectly still, taking inventory of his surroundings. A subtle weight rested on his chest. A warm, sleek body pressed against his side. Soft fur tickled his chin.

During the night, they had migrated together again. Thora’s sabertooth form curled against him, her massive head tucked beneath his chin. His own arms, covered in thick bear fur, wrapped protectively around her smaller frame.

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