They didn't make it far.
The cliffs stretched longer than they appeared from above, paths narrowing into jagged ledges that crumbled beneath careless steps. Wind howled between broken stone, carrying ash from the ruined village below.
She focused on her breathing.
Slow. Measured. Just like he had told her.
Still, the pull between them never faded. It wasn't pain—not yet—but a constant pressure beneath her skin, like an invisible thread drawn too tight.
"How far can we go?" she asked quietly.
He didn't slow. "As far as the chain allows."
"That's not an answer."
He glanced back at her, expression unreadable. "It's the only one that matters."
She clenched her jaw and kept walking.
Minutes passed in tense silence.
Then she felt it.
A sudden lightness in her chest—followed by a sharp, disorienting pull, as if the ground had shifted sideways.
Her vision blurred.
Pain struck without warning.
She cried out, dropping to one knee as the mark on her wrist flared violently. The world tilted, sound warping, pressure crushing down on her lungs.
He staggered at the same time.
One hand slammed into the cliff wall as the chains around his arms snapped taut, glowing faintly.
"You went too far," he said through clenched teeth.
"I—I didn't—" Her breath came in ragged gasps. "I was right behind you."
"Distance isn't measured in steps," he replied sharply. "It's measured in intent."
She stared up at him, tears burning her eyes. "What does that even mean?"
He forced himself upright, chains slowly loosening as the pain subsided.
"It means hesitation matters," he said. "Doubt matters. The moment you thought about turning back, the link stretched."
Her stomach dropped.
"So I can't even think freely now?" she whispered.
"You can," he said. "But the chain listens."
That terrified her more than the pain.
She pushed herself up slowly, careful not to trigger another surge. Her legs trembled, but she stayed standing.
"There are rules," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "You know them."
"Yes."
"Then tell me."
He studied her for a long moment, as if deciding how much damage truth might cause.
"Rule one," he said finally. "Don't run—from me, or from what binds us."
She nodded once.
"Rule two," he continued. "Strong emotion travels faster than movement. Fear, guilt, panic—they hit first."
She swallowed.
"And rule three?"
His gaze darkened.
"Physical contact can either stabilize the chain," he said, "or provoke it."
Her heart stuttered. "Which one just happened back there?"
"That," he replied, "was hesitation."
They stood there, wind tearing at their clothes, the world stretched wide and hostile around them.
"So what do we do now?" she asked.
He looked ahead, toward a narrow pass cutting between two towering slabs of stone.
"We adapt."
They moved again—slower this time.
She learned to match her pace to his, not just in steps but in intention. When fear rose, she forced it down. When doubt crept in, she anchored herself by focusing on the sound of his chains, the steady rhythm of his presence.
It was exhausting.
Halfway through the pass, she stumbled.
Before she could stop herself, her hand shot out.
She grabbed his sleeve.
The reaction was instant.
The chains recoiled violently—then stilled.
The pain didn't come.
Instead, the pressure eased.
Both of them froze.
She realized she was still holding onto him.
"I—" She let go quickly. "I'm sorry."
He didn't move.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath with them.
"That wasn't painful," she said slowly.
"No," he agreed.
She hesitated. "Then what was it?"
His jaw tightened. "A correction."
The word lingered between them.
They continued through the pass, the air growing colder, the sky darkening as clouds thickened overhead. Somewhere in the distance, something howled—long, low, searching.
Hunters.
Her pulse spiked instinctively.
He stopped.
She froze immediately, clamping down on the surge of fear before it could spill over.
"Good," he murmured. "You felt it, didn't you?"
She nodded. "They're close."
"Yes."
She glanced at him. "Can you fight them?"
He considered the question carefully.
"Yes," he said. "But you won't survive the aftermath."
Her chest tightened. "So what am I supposed to do when they come?"
He met her gaze fully now.
"Trust me," he said. "And don't try to be brave."
The howling grew louder.
Closer.
She took a steadying breath, forcing herself to stand still, to stay.
For the first time since waking in chains, she didn't feel like running.
And somewhere deep within the curse that bound them, something shifted—subtle, restrained, and watching.