Chapter 3: The scar that Binds

Aric was bleeding again.

Lyria could smell it before she saw him—that sharp copper tang cutting through the evening's honeysuckle perfume. She didn't look up from her stitching as his familiar footsteps crushed the bluebells at the glade's edge.

"You're late," she said, biting off the thread with her teeth. The needle—stolen from the Sun Court's armory last week—left angry red marks on her fingertips.

Aric collapsed beside her with a groan, his armor clanking against the Weirwood's roots. "Had to lose Kaelin in the market. Girl's getting too clever for her own good."

Moonlight caught the gash across his palm as he reached for her. Lyria's stomach lurched. The wound was deeper than last time, the edges ragged where some blade had caught him unaware. Blood welled thick between his calluses, dripping onto last autumn's dead leaves.

"Gods' breath, Aric." Her hands shook as she tore a strip from her underskirt. The linen was softer than his military-issue bandages, though she'd never admit she'd started wearing extra layers just for this purpose.

He hissed when she pressed the cloth to his palm. "Easy, witch. That's my sword hand."

"And whose fault is that?" She knotted the bandage too tight. The blood bloomed through immediately, a crimson flower unfolding between them.

Aric studied the stain with detached interest, like it belonged to someone else. "You should see the other fellow."

Lyria's magic stirred before she could stop it—that warm, honeyed feeling pooling beneath her ribs. She'd promised the coven she wouldn't use her gifts on him again. Promised herself.

But his blood was seeping through the bandage.

"Don't," Aric murmured, catching her wrist. His thumb found the racing pulse beneath her skin. "Last time—"

"I know what happened last time." The memory still woke her in a cold sweat—that terrible cracking sound as the Veil protested their mingled magics.

Yet when she looked at his hand, all she saw was the scar from three weeks ago. The one that matched hers perfectly.

Lyria exhaled sharply and pressed her palm to his.

The healing warmth flooded her veins, sweet as summer wine. Aric's breath hitched—whether from pain or something else, she couldn't tell. His fingers twined with hers, their scars aligning like puzzle pieces.

For one heartbeat, two, the world held its breath.

Then—

**Crack.**

The sound ricocheted through the glade. Above them, the Weirwood shuddered, raining down brittle leaves that turned to ash before they hit the ground.

Lyria yanked back, but it was too late. The scar on Aric's palm now glowed faintly silver—and so did hers.

Somewhere in the distance, a nightingale fell silent mid-song.

Aric stared at their joined hands, his face gone pale beneath the stubble. "That's new."

Lyria's mouth tasted like burnt sugar and dread. The Oracle's warning echoed in her skull: *Every time your magics entwine, the Veil weakens.*

She reached for the needle still tangled in her mending. "Take off your shirt."

Aric blinked. "Not that I'm complaining, but—"

"There's blood on the collar," she lied, threading fresh silk. "I won't have you returning to court looking like some back-alley brawler."

Her hands didn't shake as she stitched the torn seam. They couldn't afford to. Not when every prick of the needle, every brush of her fingers against his neck, was a silent apology.

*This is how we love now,* she thought, pulling the thread taut. *In stolen moments and mended clothes.*

Aric's breath warmed her temple as he leaned in. "Lyria—"

"Don't." She bit her lip until she tasted blood. "Just... let me do this."

The Weirwood sighed above them, its branches etching cracks across the moon.