Lyrae's POV
"You're lying."
My hands shake as I press them against Riven's wounds, green light pouring from my palms. But even as I heal him, my mind refuses to accept his words.
Mom can't be dead. She can't be.
"Lyrae, I'm not—" Riven coughs again, more blood. "I saw it happen. Mordain drove his blade through her chest. She tried to protect the villagers, and he just—"
"STOP!" I scream. The healing light flares so bright it hurts to look at. "Stop lying! Mom is fine. She has to be fine. She promised she'd always protect us. She PROMISED!"
Draven kneels beside me, his hand on my shoulder. "Lyrae—"
"Don't." I shrug him off. "Don't tell me to accept it. Don't tell me it's okay. Nothing about this is okay!"
Riven's wounds are closing, but he looks worse somehow. His eyes are unfocused. His breathing too shallow.
Something's wrong.
"Draven," I say urgently. "Something's wrong with him. The healing should be working, but—"
That's when I notice it. A black mark spreading across Riven's neck. Like poison. Like death.
"No," Draven breathes. "That's darkfire venom. Mordain's blade is coated in it."
"What does that mean?"
"It means your brother is dying, and nothing can save him. Not even you."
"That's not true!" I pour more power into Riven, trying desperately to fight the venom. But it just spreads faster, like my healing is feeding it. "There has to be something. Some way to—"
"There isn't." Aetheria's voice echoes through the grove. "Darkfire venom is created specifically to kill Bridges. Your power cannot heal it. It can only make it worse."
I pull my hands back like I've been burned. The light fades, leaving Riven gasping on the ground.
"Then what do I do?" I beg. "How do I save him?"
"You don't."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"This is the first lesson you must learn," Aetheria continues, its voice sad but firm. "You cannot save everyone. Some deaths are inevitable. Some sacrifices necessary."
"He's my BROTHER!" Tears stream down my face. "I won't let him die. I won't!"
Riven's hand finds mine, squeezing weakly. "Lyrae... it's okay..."
"It's NOT okay!"
"Listen to me." His voice is fading. "Mom's last words... she said to find you. To tell you... you're stronger than you know. That you'll save everyone... the way she couldn't save Caelan..."
His eyes close.
His breathing stops.
And I feel something inside me break.
"NO!" I gather him in my arms, sobbing. "Riven, please. Please don't leave me. You're all I have left. You and Dad and—"
"Lyrae." Draven's voice is gentle. "He's gone."
"He can't be gone. I just healed him. I just—"
But even as I speak, Riven's body starts to dissolve. Turning into light. Into energy. Returning to Aetheria.
Within seconds, there's nothing left but the memory of his weight in my arms.
I scream. The sound tears from my throat like something alive. And with it comes power—raw, uncontrolled, fueled by grief so deep it feels like drowning.
Golden light explodes from my body.
But this time, Draven is there. His arms wrap around me from behind, and the moment he touches me, the power shifts. Instead of destroying, it flows. Spreads through the grove like a wave of pure sorrow.
The trees around us weep. Literally. Sap runs down their trunks like tears.
And I feel it—every living thing in the grove sharing my pain. Feeling what I feel. Grieving with me.
When the light finally fades, I collapse against Draven. Empty. Broken.
"I've lost everyone," I whisper. "Caelan. Mom. Riven. Everyone I loved is gone."
"Not everyone." Draven's arms tighten around me. "I'm still here."
"For how long? Until this war takes you too?"
He doesn't answer. Because we both know it's possible. Probable, even.
We sit in silence as night falls over the Sacred Grove. Draven doesn't let go. Doesn't tell me to be strong or to move on. He just holds me while I fall apart.
Eventually, my tears dry up. But the pain doesn't.
"Tell me about Kyra," I say finally, my voice hoarse. "Your sister. What was she like?"
Draven stiffens. "Why?"
"Because I need to understand. I need to know who we've lost. All of us." I turn to look at him. "Please."
For a long moment, he doesn't speak. Then, quietly: "She loved birds. Used to make me catch them so she could study them before we let them go. She'd name each one, memorize their songs." His voice cracks. "The night your people came, she was sleeping. I was on the other side of the village, doing my training. I heard the screams and ran, but the fire was already spreading."
He stops, his jaw clenched tight.
"I found her room. The whole house was burning. I could hear her calling my name, begging me to save her. But the flames were too hot. Too high. I couldn't reach her." Tears slide down his scarred face. "I stood there and listened to my baby sister burn to death. And I couldn't do anything."
"Draven..." My heart breaks for him.
"I was sixteen. She was seven. And I've spent every day since then hating myself for not being fast enough. Strong enough. Brave enough." He looks at me, and the pain in his amber eyes is unbearable. "So when you say you're sorry? When you apologize for something your people did? It doesn't change anything. It doesn't bring her back."
"No," I agree quietly. "But maybe it means we can stop creating more Kyras. More Caelans. More Rivens."
"How? By hiding in this grove while our families kill each other?"
"By getting strong enough to stop them." I stand up, wiping my eyes. "Aetheria brought us here for a reason. To train. To learn. To become powerful enough to end this war."
"And if we're not strong enough? If we fail?"
"Then we fail together."
I hold out my hand to him. After a moment, he takes it.
The moment our hands touch, that connection flares to life again. The bond that makes his strength steady my chaos. That makes my power amplify his.
"I don't understand this," Draven admits, staring at our joined hands. "Why us? Why are we connected like this?"
"I don't know. But I'm starting to think—"
A voice interrupts from the shadows. "Because you're mates."
We both spin around. A figure emerges from between the trees—an old woman with silver hair and eyes that glow the same green as mine.
"Who are you?" Draven demands, moving in front of me protectively.
"My name is Elara. I was a Bridge, like you. A thousand years ago." She studies us with those ancient eyes. "And I failed my mission. Let my bonded mate die. Watched my world tear itself apart because I wasn't strong enough to stop it."
"You're... you're a thousand years old?" I gasp.
"Bridges don't die like normal people. We fade when our purpose is fulfilled. Or when we give up." She steps closer. "And I've been waiting here all this time for Aetheria to choose new Bridges. To give them the training I never had. To make sure they don't fail like I did."
"What do you mean, 'mates'?" Draven asks.
"Exactly what it sounds like. Aetheria doesn't choose Bridges randomly. It chooses pairs—two souls that complement each other perfectly. One to create, one to protect. One to heal, one to fight. Together, you're unstoppable. Apart, you'll burn yourselves out and die."
My hand tightens in Draven's. "So we're stuck together?"
"Oh, it's much worse than that, child." Elara's smile is sad. "You're bonded. Soul-deep. Which means if one of you dies, the other dies too. Your life forces are intertwined now. You'll feel each other's pain, share each other's strength, and when one heart stops beating..."
She doesn't finish, but she doesn't need to.
We're connected. Permanently. And if one of us falls, we both do.
"That's insane," Draven says flatly. "We barely know each other. We were enemies a week ago."
"Were you?" Elara tilts her head. "Or were you two lonely souls who finally found someone who understands? Someone who shares your pain? Your guilt? Your desperate need to make the deaths mean something?"
Her words hit too close to home.
"The bond forms when two Bridges first touch," Elara continues. "It happened in that ravine when Draven caught you, Lyrae. The moment his hand closed around your wrist, your souls recognized each other. Everything since then—the way you can't stop protecting each other, the way your powers stabilize when you're together—that's the bond growing stronger."
"Can it be broken?" I ask.
"Only by death." Elara's expression darkens. "Which is why you need to train. To become strong enough that no army, no weapon, no force in this world can separate you. Because the moment you're apart for too long, your powers will consume you both."
"How long is too long?" Draven's voice is tight.
"For newly bonded Bridges? Three days, maybe four, before the separation starts killing you."
Three days. We can only be apart for three days before we die.
"This is a curse," Draven breathes.
"Or a gift." Elara shrugs. "Depends on whether you fight it or embrace it."
"How can we embrace being forced together?" I demand. "We didn't choose this!"
"Didn't you?" Elara's eyes bore into mine. "Every time you saved each other, you chose. Every time you touched despite knowing the danger, you chose. Aetheria doesn't force bonds on unwilling souls. It only reveals connections that already exist."
She turns to leave, then pauses.
"Your training begins at dawn. I'll teach you to control your gifts. To fight as one. To become the Bridges this broken world needs." Her voice hardens. "But know this—the path ahead is brutal. Most bonded pairs don't survive their training. The ones who do are never the same."
"Wait," I call out. "What happened to your bonded mate? How did they die?"
Elara's face crumbles, showing her age for the first time.
"I killed him," she whispers. "My power spiraled out of control during a battle. I couldn't stop it. And he threw himself in front of the blast to save our enemies. To show both sides that peace was possible. He died believing I'd continue our mission."
"But you didn't," Draven says quietly.
"No. I gave up. Let the war continue. Hid in this grove for a thousand years while the world outside burned." She looks at us with eyes full of regret. "Don't be like me. Don't let fear make you weak. Because if you fail—if you give up like I did—there won't be another chance. Aetheria is dying. This world is dying. You two are the last hope."
She disappears between the trees, leaving us alone with the weight of impossible expectations.
Draven and I look at each other. Really look.
We're bonded. Connected. If he dies, I die. If I die, he dies.
We're literally stuck with each other for the rest of our lives.
"Well," Draven finally says. "This is the worst day of my life."
Despite everything—despite the grief and fear and confusion—I almost laugh.
"Mine too."
"We should probably talk about this. About... us."
"Probably."
But neither of us knows what to say. How do you process being soul-bonded to someone you barely know? Someone who was your enemy days ago?
We're still standing there, hands joined, trying to figure it out when the ground starts shaking again.
Not from earthquakes this time.
From footsteps. Heavy ones. Dozens of them.
"Did Elara say we were safe here?" I ask nervously.
"She said training starts at dawn," Draven replies, drawing his weapon. "She didn't say anything about being safe."
The footsteps get closer. Louder.
And then they emerge from between the trees.
Ashborn warriors. At least twenty of them, led by someone I recognize even in the darkness.
Mordain.
He looks at us with cold fury.
"Did you really think the Sacred Grove could keep you from me?" he asks. "I've spent twenty years studying the old magic. Learning its secrets. Finding its weaknesses."
He raises his hand, and dark energy crackles around his fingers. Not Aetheria's light. Something else. Something wrong.
"And now I'm going to do what I should have done years ago." His eyes lock on Draven. "I'm going to kill you myself. And then I'm going to take the girl and turn her into the weapon she was always meant to be."
The warriors spread out, surrounding us.
We're trapped. Outnumbered. And our so-called safe haven has been breached.
Draven squeezes my hand once. "Together?"
"Together," I breathe.
Our powers flare simultaneously—his red, mine gold, swirling together into something new.
Something neither army has ever seen before.
And as Mordain's warriors charge, I realize something terrifying.
This isn't training.
This is survival.
And only one side is walking away.