Page 5 of Marked By the Enemy
He stood. “There are three stages. We’re in the first. Surface resonance. Unstable. Temporary.” He strolled toward me with a casual, unhurried pace, as if he had all the time in the world.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Not because he was beautiful—though he was—but because something in his expression cracked. Like he wanted to say something else. Something that hurt.
But instead, he sealed it shut behind that cold, perfect face. “The second stage comes next if it stabilizes.”
A painful lump rose in my throat, yet I jutted out my chin. “And the third?”
“Fracture or fusion. Only the powerful fuse. For the rest, the bond turns them to dust.” He gave me his usual intense, cold stare.
I didn’t blink. “Which would you prefer?”
“Neither. Why did you try to kill me?”
“Because you are evil.”
A muscle quivered in his jawline. “Who sent you?”
“I thought the interrogator would get that information out of Priestess Jinth.”
He flicked a hand. “She died too easily. She was stubborn, like you.”
Bile burned the back of my throat. I swallowed.
“The thing is that if you are too weak for the bond—which you clearly are—we will both turn to dust.”
Although I stayed grounded to the spot with my chin jutted out and nails digging into my palms, I lost track of spatial awareness. I had prepared for thedeath of comrades, but this marked my first experience with such a loss, and resisting emotion proved difficult.
The silence between us stretched until something in the air tightened.
He turned, crossed to the wall, and drew a sword. “You’ve trained.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You track exits first. You walk like you know how to take a hit.” He tossed the blade at my feet. “Pick it up.”
I stayed where I was.
“If you want control over the vow, you’ll need to show it something.”
I picked it up. Light. Balanced. Dangerous. His sword shimmered faintly, without light striking it. The blade was Fae-Steel—silver at a glance, but threaded with darker veins that swam when the weapon moved, like smoke trapped beneath glass. The Boundless had called it an old craft, folded metal and memory, quenched in something more than fire. It looked alive.
“One strike, one question,” he said.
“And if I lose?”
“You sweat.”
We fought. His blade was faster. Mine hit harder. I aimed for the neck. He aimed for my knees. He never stopped talking.
“Too slow on the pivot.”
“You’re breathing wrong.”
“Left side’s weak.”
My breath sounded loud in my ears. I gritted my teeth and shoved forward. Our swords locked. The vow surged—heat under my skin. His eyes flashed silver.
I took a shaky breath. “What was that?”
