A Thin Line

The library in the East Wing smelled like dust, candle wax, and secrets.

I slipped in just past curfew, a flame flickering in my palm to light the darkened stacks. Magic wasn’t allowed after hours, but rules had never mattered much to me, especially not when my life was literally tethered to someone else’s. Someone I could barely stand.

Lucian hadn’t spoken to me since the last combat drill. Not really. Just a few clipped commands, eye rolls, and that one gritted “you missed your target again” when I scorched a training dummy’s cloak instead of its chest.

He hated this bond.

He hated me.

But I hated feeling helpless even more.

Somewhere in the forbidden texts—those kept behind the blacklocked shelves, chained and sealed with spells older than kingdoms—there had to be something. A loophole. A ritual. A cursebreaker with teeth.

I crouched by a cracked volume of bloodbinding runes, flipping through brittle pages. Most were useless. Some were horrifying. A few looked promising. The kind of promise that could kill you if you got the pronunciation wrong.

I heard the door creak before I saw him.

Lucian stepped inside like he belonged in the shadows. His cloak was half undone, collar askew, jaw set. I froze, one hand still on the page.

“You really are an idiot,” he said softly.

My spine stiffened. “You followed me?”

“No. I felt the migraine splitting my skull when your spell hit the barrier ward on this place.”

Of course. The tether. I forgot. Again.

He moved closer, eyes scanning the open text in front of me. “Trying to break the bond?”

“Yes.”

“Did you consider,” he said, his voice quieter now, “that if it backfires, we both might die?”

“I consider it constantly.”

A beat of silence stretched between us. He didn’t argue. He just looked at the runes on the page, then at me, brow furrowed like he wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or… impressed.

I closed the book. “I’m not sitting around waiting to be someone’s tragedy.”

“You already are,” he said, but there was no venom in it this time—just a tired kind of truth.

I stood and brushed the dust off my knees. “If you don’t want to be tethered to me, maybe help instead of sneaking around like some haunted wolf with daddy issues.”

That earned me a sharp breath. I thought he might lash out.

Instead, he huffed a laugh. A real one—dry, humorless, startled from his chest like he couldn’t help it. He looked away quickly, as if the sound offended him.

“You never shut up, do you?” he muttered.

I tilted my head. “Is that admiration I hear, Your Highness?”

He stared at me for a long moment. Then, softly: “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet here you are.”

Another silence, heavier now.

Finally, he moved past me, fingers trailing along the chained volumes. “You remind me of someone I used to know.”

“Dead?”

He nodded. “Brave. Stupid. Always looking for trouble.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. So I didn’t. I just watched as he touched the spine of a book wrapped in red leather and iron bindings.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he said suddenly, without looking at me. “You act like you’ve got something to prove.”

“I do,” I whispered.

He finally met my gaze again. “To whom?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth felt too raw to say out loud.

Lucian didn’t push. Just gave a slight nod, almost respectful, and turned away.

We walked back to our shared quarters in silence. Not side by side this time, but not far apart either.

And when I fell asleep that night, I dreamed of fire meeting frost, not in battle, but in balance.

Just for a moment.