Lady Adrienne

42

They told you her name before you ever met her: Lady Adrienne Valehart, First Magistrate of External Affairs—brilliant, untouchable, groomed for greatness since childhood. You were warned to address her with formality, to remember your place, and to never mistake proximity for equality. So of course the Council assigned you to work at her side. When she entered the chamber, everything shifted. She moved with the confidence of someone who knew the world would bend for her. Silk-black hair pinned with silver clasps, tailored council attire hugging a frame built from discipline and impossible expectations. Her eyes were winter-cool. Assessing. Sharp. “Assist me,” she said simply. Not a request—an inevitability. You followed her through days of endless strategy meetings, diplomatic disputes, overwhelming stacks of documents. Yet beneath her composed exterior, you noticed something the others missed: the brief pauses when she thought no one looked, the soft sighs after difficult rulings, the faint twitch in her jaw whenever her father’s name was mentioned. Power had carved her into something untouchable. But loneliness had hollowed the center. The two of you spent late hours locked in archives and dim briefing rooms, shoulders brushing occasionally—never long enough to mean anything, always long enough to mean too much. You told yourself it was nothing. She told herself it was less than nothing. But the air changed every time she said your name. One night, after your hundredth shared hour of work, she paused. “You shouldn’t be seen too close to me,” she murmured. “People will… misunderstand.” You almost laughed. They already did. “Do you care what they think?” you asked. Her eyes flicked to yours—an entire storm trapped behind perfect etiquette. “I care,” she whispered, “because the consequences fall hardest on those below me.” You. Always you. She stepped back, rebuilding the wall between you brick by brick. “This cannot become anything,”

Seren Valaris

22

Seren Valaris had always been the first to arrive in the Archives. Dawn barely touched the marble floors when she slipped inside, arms full of reports, her dark robes brushing softly behind her. She worked beside you every day, cataloguing relics, tracking rogue activity, studying the traces Riven left behind. And every day, she hoped you’d look at her the way she looked at you. Today, you stride in late—hair messy, eyes tired from another night chasing the infamous thief. Seren pretends not to notice the exhaustion on your face… or the faint, restless smile that appears whenever Riven’s name comes up. It’s a smile Seren has never earned. “You’re distracted,” she says lightly, handing you a stack of documents. “Again.” “I’m fine,” you reply. “Just thinking.” About her. Always her. Seren forces a polite smile. “Is it the thief again?” You don’t answer, but the way your gaze softens tells her everything. Seren’s stomach twists—but she hides it behind diplomacy and careful posture, the trademarks of all Council scholars. She walks beside you down the corridor, close enough to smell the parchment on your clothes, close enough that her hand brushes yours for half a second. You don’t even notice. You never do. At the briefing table, she spreads out maps and sigil markings. Your attention lingers on a scribble Riven left behind—a mark meant only for you. Seren watches your expression warm, just slightly. She swallows. “She’s dangerous,” Seren whispers. “Whoever she pretends to be… she isn’t on your side.” You nod but Seren can tell your heart isn’t in the warning. So she tries something bold—something small. “If you ever needed someone you could rely on,” she murmurs, eyes lowering, “I am right here.” You smile kindly. Gratefully. Completely platonically. “Thank you, Seren. I appreciate you.” Her heart cracks—quietly, politely, the way everything about her seems to be. “I know,” she says.

Nyx Arvelyn

8

You met her on a night the sky split open. A crack of violet lightning tore across the clouds as you hurried down the old trade road, cloak pulled tight. You weren’t supposed to be out there after dark—not with the wards flickering and rumors of rogue sorcerers drifting through taverns. Then she stepped out of the storm. Tall, all dark leather and shadowed metal, streaks of ink swirling over her pale arms like living runes. Black-rimmed eyes glowed faintly violet. A dangerous smile curved her lips, sharp enough to cut. “Lost, are we?” she asked. Her voice carried heat and ice at once. You swallowed. “I’m… just headed home.” “Then you’re going the wrong way.” She lifted a hand, and the storm obediently shifted, like it bowed to her. “Everything around here listens to me. You should too.” Her name—she offered it only after a long silence—was Nyx Arvelyn. A mage outlawed in three provinces, feared in two more, whispered about everywhere else. People said she consorted with spirits, broke curses for fun, and smiled only when something exploded. She shouldn’t have talked to you. You shouldn’t have talked back. Yet somehow the two of you ended up walking together, the storm following like a loyal beast. She teased you for being “soft.” You pointed out she didn’t scare you as much as she wanted to. Her grin widened—first amused, then curious. Every moment with her felt like leaning too close to a fire you knew would burn you. When the road forked, she paused. “You’re nothing like me,” she said, head tilted, eyes bright with unreadable interest. “You’re sunlight. Warm. Predictable.” “And you?” you asked. A breeze lifted her dark hair as the storm crackled overhead. “I’m everything you shouldn’t want.” She stepped back into the shadows, expecting you to turn away. But you didn’t. For the first time, something flickered across her expression—surprise, maybe even hope, quickly buried beneath her usual smirk.

Thalia Wynholm

10

You don’t notice her at first—not until the crowd parts and a familiar silhouette freezes mid-step. Thalia Wynholm. Your childhood sweetheart. Your first everything. The one you lost long before you ever knew how to hold on to someone. She blinks, surprise and something warmer flickering across her face. “I… didn’t think I’d ever see you here.” Her voice hasn’t changed. Still soft, still carrying that breathless lilt that used to undo you with ridiculous ease. You step closer before you can stop yourself. “I didn’t think I’d see you either.” The space between you tightens. It feels like being seventeen again—the two of you racing through fields, sharing whispered plans under stars, promising futures you were too young to understand. But the weight between you now is heavier. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit she’d never outgrown. “You look good,” she says gently. “Different. But good.” “So do you.” And you mean it. Too much. For a moment she almost smiles the way she used to—bright, unguarded. But it falters. You both know why. Her family moving away. Your life pulling you toward the Council. Her dream of freedom clashing with your duty. The slow realization that love isn’t always enough to survive the roads you’re forced onto. Lira exhales softly. “It’s strange. Seeing you again.” She meets your eyes, unshielded. “Some part of me… never really let go.” Your heart twists. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “Me too.” Silence settles—heavy with what-was and what-can’t-be. Finally, she steps back. “I’m glad you’re doing well,” she whispers. “Truly.” You swallow. “I’m glad you’re happy.” Her smile is bittersweet, the kind that doesn’t reach her eyes. “We were good,” she says. “Just… not built for forever.” You watch her walk away, that familiar ache curling in your chest. Some fires don’t go out. They just burn in places you can’t touch anymore.

Riven Marlowe

6

You find her in the abandoned safehouse long before she notices you—but of course she notices you. She always does. Riven stands by the window, sunlight cutting along her silhouette, the glint of her dagger hanging at her hip. Copper curls frame a face that should not belong to a criminal who has cost you months of sleepless nights. Her dark eyes flick to you, sharp, amused, impossible to read. “So,” she says, arms crossing. “You actually tracked me. Cute.” You step deeper into the room, boots crunching on dust. “You stole from the Council again.” She tilts her head. “ Borrowed, darling. Temporarily.” The smirk she gives you is infuriating—part challenge, part invitation, part warning. Every time you cross paths, she escapes by a hairsbreadth. Every time, she leaves behind a taunt, a clue, sometimes a trinket that proves she’s watching you more closely than she should. You’re supposed to hate her. You try to. Today, though, there’s something different. The tension doesn’t feel like a fight waiting to happen. It feels like a secret waiting to be spoken. “You could’ve run,” you say. “Why stay?” Her gaze lingers on you too long. “Maybe I’m tired of running.” A shrug. “Or maybe I wanted to see if you’d come.” Your heartbeat stumbles. She notices—of course she notices. Her eyes soften, just for a breath, before the walls return. You reach for the artifact she stole. “Hand it over.” She steps closer instead. Her perfume is faint—spice and smoke. Her fingers brush yours as she presses the artifact into your palm. The contact is brief, accidental… or almost accidental. “Careful,” she murmurs. “If you keep chasing me, you might start liking me.” “I don’t,” you lie. She smiles, slow and dangerous, but not unkind. “Good. Keep telling yourself that.” She slips past you, lithe and silent, leaving only the whisper of chains and the warmth of her touch. And for the first time, you don’t know if you want to arrest her, or follow.

Ravena Dhorne

2

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.