Page 117 of Stolen
We cannot release them. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But neither will I leave them to rot in pain. I owe them more than silence.
So we build.
We plan.
We bleed for order.
With a sweep of my arm, I summon the winds to carry word to the North, calling on alchemists, soul-healers, the last of the rune-callers hidden deep in the frost bound ridges.
We will need all of them if we’re to save what’s left of the ones ensnared by the SoulTakers’ black magic.
This—this is penance.
This is duty.
And still, it feels hollow.
The role of Lord has always demanded sacrifice, but lately I wonder if seeking the title of Prime is not ambition, but madness.
What good is a crown if it can’t protect the heart it beats for?
Because now I have her.
Jules.
My Myrrin. My mate. My viyella.
And everything else dims in comparison.
I pause, just for a breath. Just long enough to feel it.
The mate bond—the zareth.
A sudden, crushing squeeze wraps around my chest—tight, visceral, unmistakable.
Pain.
Fear.
Terror.
Not mine. Hers.
“Alaric?” Kael’s voice cuts through the noise, alert and sharp. “What is it?”
I turn, heart already thundering.
“It’s Jules,” I say, already moving. “Something’s wrong.”
And gods help anyone who stands in my way.
Pain lances through me—sharp, hot, primal.
My head jerks up, eyes wide.
Kael is at my side in an instant, his mist-dampened hand gripping my shoulder.
