The moment the sun rose, we ran.
No royal pardon. No trial. No forgiveness.
Only exile.
We fled through broken alleys and over abandoned fields, past towns that turned their faces away when they saw the silver lightning still crackling in the skies above us.
Wanted posters appeared within hours.
Two faces: Caelum Vire and Virelya Elaren.
Crimes: Treason. Forbidden Bonding. World-Ending Magic.
There was no place for us here anymore.
No home. No protection.
Just the bond, throbbing between us, alive with a heat that didn't fade, even as we stumbled into the dead forests on the edge of the kingdom.
---
By the second day, exhaustion gnawed at me.
My ribs still ached from the severance spell. My side burned from the assassin's blade.
Virelya was worse.
She barely slept.
Every time she closed her eyes, her magic leaked out—tiny cracks of chaos that twisted the air, browned the trees, warped the very ground beneath our feet.
I kept holding her.
Anchoring her.
Reminding her that she was still here, still herself, even if the world refused to believe it.
She never said thank you.
She didn't have to.
The way she clung to me when she thought I was asleep said enough.
---
On the third day, we crossed the barrier into the Wildlands.
It wasn't marked.
No walls. No signs.
Just the sudden, oppressive feeling of old magic—a place the Crown abandoned centuries ago because it couldn't be tamed.
We stumbled through the mist until we found shelter in the ruins of what might've once been a temple.
Broken columns. Shattered altars. Vines swallowing everything.
I sank to the ground with a groan, clutching my wounded side.
Virelya knelt beside me immediately.
"You're bleeding again."
"It's fine," I lied.
She touched my skin—and I flinched.
Not from pain.
From the bond.
It rejoiced at her touch, singing through my veins, trying to pull me closer even when I needed to stay still.
"You're terrible at hiding pain," she said.
"And you're terrible at hiding fear."
She stiffened.
I caught her wrist before she could pull away.
"You're allowed to be scared, Virelya," I said softly. "You don't have to be a villain with me."
Her eyes shimmered under the fractured moonlight.
And for once, she didn't argue.
---
We slept in shifts that night.
I kept watch while she curled beside a broken pillar, magic still humming faintly around her.
When it was her turn, she sang under her breath—a haunting, half-forgotten lullaby in a language I didn't know.
Maybe it was the exhaustion.
Maybe it was the bond.
But for the first time since this cursed story began, I slept without nightmares.
---
Morning came too soon.
And with it—
Company.
I woke to the sound of footsteps.
Low. Careful. Predators.
I shoved Virelya awake and drew the broken sword I scavenged from the ruins.
Figures moved through the mist—five of them.
Not royal guards.
Not assassins.
Something worse.
Rogues.
Outcasts of magic. Mercenaries. Bandits who lived in the Wildlands because nowhere else would tolerate their crimes.
One stepped forward.
A woman with braided silver hair, tattoos curling around her throat, and a gaze that sliced as sharply as any blade.
"Easy, lovebirds," she said, smirking. "We're not here to kill you."
"Then what are you here for?" I said, tightening my grip on the hilt.
She smiled, slow and dangerous.
"To offer you a deal."
Virelya rose slowly, magic already flickering around her hands.
The woman laughed.
"No need for threats, sweetheart. We're on your side."
"There are no sides anymore," Virelya said coldly. "Just survivors."
"Exactly." The rogue's smile widened. "And survivors need each other."
Another figure tossed a folded parchment at my feet.
I bent to pick it up.
Sealed with a wax emblem I didn't recognize—a broken crown.
Inside: an offer.
Join us.
Fight back.
Or die alone.
---
I looked at Virelya.
Her eyes were shadowed. Tired. Burning with something darker than fear.
Hope? No.
Something sharper.
Revenge.
She nodded once.
"Tell your masters," she said, voice like steel, "we'll hear their offer."
---
As the rogues melted back into the mist, I caught her hand.
"You trust them?" I asked under my breath.
"I don't trust anyone," she whispered. "But we can't fight this war alone."
Her fingers squeezed mine—quick, fleeting, but enough to ignite the bond again.
Enough to remind me of the truth.
We were cursed.
Hunted.
Damned.
But for the first time, we weren't running anymore.
We were preparing to fight back.