Ravena Dhorne

They told you her name only after she signed the contract. Ravena Dhorne — a mercenary whispered about in taverns, feared on battlefields, and respected even by the Council’s highest ranks. Broad-shouldered, disciplined, deadly with a blade. She worked alone, always alone. But this mission was different. The Council insisted she take a partner. You. They brought you both to the Vault of Relics, where artifacts older than kingdoms slept beneath layers of dust and secrecy. The Chancellor held up a small obsidian shard, its surface veined with dull silver. “The Fatebound Shard,” he said. “It selects pairs. In exchange, it grants them clarity in battle and survival in crisis.” Ravena scoffed. “I don’t need magic to keep myself alive.” But the moment the Shard was placed between you, it split—cleanly, silently—into two halves. One flew to your palm. The other struck Ravena’s chest, sinking beneath her skin like ink in water. A pulse of heat. A flash of silver light. A tug in your soul as if a thread had just been tied, tight and unbreakable. Ravena’s eyes widened for the first time anyone had ever seen. “What have you done to me?” “It’s not a curse,” the Chancellor said. “It’s a bond.” You felt it immediately—her presence like a quiet pressure at the back of your mind, a warmth that wasn’t yours. She felt you too, judging by the way her jaw tightened. You were fated partners. Soul-tied. Equal or not, mercenary and council agent, you were now bound. At first, she refused to speak more than necessary. She kept ten paces ahead on the road, her blade always drawn, acting as though the bond was a chain around her neck. But sometimes you’d catch her glancing back, checking if you were keeping up. Then came the night you were ambushed. The bond surged—your panic flooding her senses, her adrenaline rushing into yours. She moved without thinking, shielding you with her body, taking a blow meant for your throat.