TRIADBOND

Valkhara

I was lying on the floor.

Not gracefully. Not dramatically. Just… flat.

Wrapped in a thick blanket, hair still crusted with blood from the Mirror Chamber, one eye cracked open as I stared at the ceiling like it might offer divine answers.

It did not.

Sevrin sat in the corner sharpening a blade...again.

Azric paced near the balcony, pausing only to glance at me every few seconds like he wasn’t sure if I’d combust or throw up.

I didn’t blame him. I wasn’t sure either.

The burn from the Trial still lingered under my skin. Not physical, but magical. Emotional.

Worse.

The bond with Sevrin and Azric pulsed low in my chest, steady but heavy. And beneath all of that?

Something else.

A faint pulse.

Distant. Unsteady.

Not from either of them.

Not mine.

But still... connected.

It came and went in short, aching bursts. Like someone screaming underwater.

Like a chain rattling behind a locked door in the back of my head.

I sat up too fast and groaned. Azric appeared beside me instantly.

“You good?”

“Peachy,” I muttered.

Sevrin didn’t even look up. “You didn’t eat.”

I was about to sass back when the door slammed open with the kind of confidence only one person in this world could get away with.

“Well, well, well,” came the voice of pure chaos. “If it isn’t my favorite blood-soaked bitch and her two emotionally unavailable dick-daggers.”

“Nyra,” I groaned, and dropped my head back onto the floor. “Please tell me that bag you’re carrying is full of poison.”

“Better,” she grinned, sweeping into the room like she owned it. “It’s full of potions, painkillers, power stabilizers, and enough mood charms to keep you from murdering anyone mid-trial.”

Azric blinked. “How did she get in?”

Nyra tossed a pouch onto the table. “Don’t question my methods.”

Sevrin growled. “I’m going to kill the guards.”

“Oh hush,” she said, waving him off. “They like me. I flirted with one and threatened the other with enchanted hemorrhoids.”

“…what?” I asked.

“Anyway.” She dropped a second pouch directly onto my lap and gave me a look. “You look like a banshee that lost a bar fight. This is for you.”

I cracked a smile. “You know how to make a girl feel pretty.”

“I’m just here to stabilize your insanity. You're welcome.”

I pulled open the pouch and found two potions, a charmed coin, and a sachet that smelled like Nyra’s twisted version of lavender. I sniffed it.

“Does this have grave dust in it?”

“Only a little,” she said, and plopped herself onto the arm of the sofa. “Helps ward off mirror residue, ya know the nightmares and shit.”

Azric sat across from me, still tense. Sevrin finally put the blade down and watched us with narrowed eyes.

“Why are you actually here, Nyra?” he asked.

“Because your girl shook something loose yesterday,” she said bluntly. “There’s buzz. Even the shadows in the corridors are twitching.”

“Let them twitch,” I said, downing the stabilizer potion. It burned like Nyra’s bad decisions and made my spine tingle.

“They’re calling her the Flame That Walked Out,” Nyra said, eyes flicking to Azric and Sevrin. “No one expected her to survive that trial, much less tear it apart from the inside.”

I froze at the name. “They know what I am?”

“They know what you showed,” she corrected. “But they don’t understand it yet. Which makes you dangerous.”

The weight of her words settled between us like a prophecy.

Then it struck again.

That flicker.

That ache.

A pulse in my ribs that wasn’t mine. A flash of emotion, jealous, violent, desperate, and then gone.

I winced.

Azric noticed. “You feel it again?”

I nodded slowly. “It’s… wrong. Not either of you. It’s something else.”

Nyra sat up straighter. “That’s the third bond.”

“I don’t even know who it is,” I admitted.

Sevrin growled under his breath. “You think it’s another contestant?”

“No.” I frowned. “It feels... caged.”

Azric leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You think someone’s locked away?”

“Or hiding,” I said. “But the bond… it’s fractured. I feel him, but only sometimes.”

Nyra’s eyes narrowed. “Has anyone ever told you about triad bonds before?”

I looked up. “Those are real?”

“Rare as fuck,” she said. “Especially for someone with Emberborn blood. Usually it’s two mates max. A triad means something ancient. Something wrong… or something divine.”

“Thanks for the comforting clarity,” I muttered.

Nyra gave a small shrug. “You asked.”

A long beat of silence.

Then she reached into her bag again and tossed me a scroll.

“What’s this?”

“Research,” she said. “Emberborn bloodlines. Ancient bond records. I started digging after you survived the first Trial.”

I unfolded the parchment slowly.

Most of it was fragmented, handwritten in old ink and dried blood.

One phrase stood out:

When three are bound to one, the throne either rises… or burns.

I swallowed hard. “So basically, I’m either going to rule the realm or destroy it.”

“Could go either way,” Nyra said brightly.

Azric stood and crossed to the window, tense. “We need to be careful. If the Council suspects there’s a third, they’ll intervene.”

“Like how?” Sevrin asked.

Azric turned. “Like they already have.”

The words sat heavy.

My stomach twisted.

“They’re hiding him,” I said aloud, the idea forming mid-breath. “They’ve locked him away. Somewhere he can’t reach me. But the bond is trying anyway.”

“And if it completes?” Nyra said carefully.

“They’ll lose control of all of us,” Azric finished.

Another beat passed and then a new pulse rippled through the room.

Magic. Ancient. Cold.

A scroll appeared in the air and dropped onto the floor with a soft thud.

Sevrin picked it up.

Black wax. Red seal.

The next Trial.

He broke it open and read aloud:

By decree of the High Blood Council,

You will face your third Trial tomorrow at sundown.

You will not fight.

You will not flee.

You will negotiate.

The surviving contestants will be placed into factions.

Your goal is simple:

Convince them to make you their leader.

Fail… and your allies will become your executioners.

Let your voice speak.

My mouth went dry.

Sevrin handed me the scroll.

Azric just stared at me, expression unreadable.

Nyra let out a slow whistle. “Politics. The deadliest game.”

“And I hate talking,” I muttered.

Azric stepped close, voice low. “Then let them feel you instead.”