Page 56 of Shadebound
“Oh yeah. Nothing says bonding like targeting our shared enemies.” He grinned harder. “Dorian couldn’t fight for shit when he got here. Within three months I helped him become less of an angsty book boy, and more of a fighter.”
My head cocked. “He liked books?”
“Poetry mostly.” Zayden replied, as he bumped my shoulder gently, and I let my head rest there for a moment.
Then I remembered I had to be an adult, and our next lesson started in a handful of minutes. So got to my feet with a huff, pretending that I hadn’t read dozens of his friend’s innermost secrets stamped between the pages of heart wrenching poetry.
Or that I wasn’t thinking of the one I’d read last.
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw — I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
Dorian had scribbled underneath it;This is the closest thing to my soul on paper.
Shoving aside my thoughts, I squeezed water out of my hair and combed through the strands with my fingers. My arms were stiff. Everything ached. The bruises beneath my skin throbbed.
“Here,” he said quietly. “Turn around.”
I hesitated, but then did as asked.
He started braiding my hair. Carefully. His fingers were warm, surprisingly gentle. It was a slow thing—like he wanted to give me a reason to stay still. Each section of hair twisted with care. I could feel his breath on my shoulder.
There was something stupidly intimate about it. Him dressing the wounds no one could see. No questions. No pity. Just hands in my hair, and silence.
I closed my eyes again. Let him finish.
Let myself wonder if I could get him to do this again without having a beating first.
When Zayden tied it off with one of my hairbands from his wrist, he didn’t move away. I half turned, and for a heartbeat too long, we looked at each other. The air thickened. Like something could shift. Like something should.
I watched his gaze flick over my face—slow and steady and unreadable.
Then he reached out and gently tapped the tip of my nose with his knuckle.
“Come on, Heartache,” he said, lips tugging into the barest hint of a smirk. “Next lesson’s waiting.”
I let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.
And followed him out.
Field Journal — Entry #107 - Classified
Love for a shadebound, digs in too deep, settles into the marrow like a curse. When someone we love is hurt, the magic flares sharp and sudden, impossible to control. Not protection—instinct. Pure and vicious. And when they die? It doesn’t just break us. It hollows us out. Rips something vital from our souls and replaces it with rot. The decay creeps in from the inside, until all that’s left is rage.
Shadebounds weren’t made for grief. We’re made for survival. For blood. And vengeance. But vengeance burns, too. It scorches anything it touches, even the pieces we were trying to protect. There’s no clean way out. No balance between holding on and letting go.
To love is to go mad. But to live without love? That breaks us just the same. Either way, we unravel. Just at different speeds.
Chapter Seventeen, Fight Fire With Fury
The magical knowledge and history classroom was the first real classroom I’d seen at Mors. No dripping ceilings, no blades on display, and no blood spattering over the floors. It actually looked like a place meant for learning, even if barely. Stark walls lined with dusty shelves. Paper stacked in batteredtrays. Desks and chairs scattered in a rough attempt at structure. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t welcoming. But it wasn’t designed for violence. That,here, made it stand out.
I was seated at a table near the centre, the wood marred with years of rough treatment—deep gouges carved by claws, scorched patches from failed magic, and sloppily etched graffiti that probably dated back generations.
