It had been nearly a week since Isabella left the village.
But Cyrus wasn't worried.
Not outwardly, at least.
He still carried that calm, gentle composure that had always defined him—the kind that made people trust him instantly. The same composure that made everyone assume nothing could shake him.
But deep down, something was off.
The necklace he had forged himself—the one that bound him to her—wasn't with him anymore. It was around Isabella's neck, exactly where it belonged. Yet even from miles away, he could still feel it.
It was a simple charm: a single golden thread woven with a drop of his own magic, enough to sense her presence.
He couldn't see her or hear her through it, but he could feel her. When she was safe, it was still. When she was in pain or danger, it burned hot, like a spark pressing against his heart.
Sometimes that spark flared, brief and violent—moments that made his pulse stop.
But before panic could set in, it would calm again.
