The palace floor was cold under Elion's bare feet.
Smooth black stone stretched endlessly in every direction, polished to a mirrored shine that reflected the torchlight in soft amber glows. His shackles scraped softly with every step—a reminder that no matter how beautiful the Moon Court was, it was still a cage.
Two guards flanked him. One was tall and stone-faced, the other younger and visibly tense. Neither met his eyes.
They didn't need to. Everyone in the palace already knew who he was: the last living bloodmage of the Scarlet Rebellion. The boy who burned a battalion alive with one scream. The one they failed to kill.
And tonight, he was to be bound—to the Moon Prince himself.
Elion lifted his chin as they approached the ritual chamber. If they thought he'd tremble like some low-born war prisoner, they were wrong.
He wouldn't kneel. He wouldn't beg. Not even for death.
The great doors opened with a low groan. The scent of incense spilled out first—moonflower and myrrh, too sweet to be real. Then came the glow: silver light washing over the marble room, bright as day yet eerily cold.
A massive circle of runes pulsed on the floor in the center of the chamber. Dozens of priests stood along its edge, heads bowed, humming a low, continuous chant that vibrated through the air.
And at the far side of it—on the throne-like platform raised by three steps—stood him.
Prince Caelan.
Elion's first thought: he looks smaller than I imagined.
Not physically—he was tall, built like a blade, dressed in black and silver robes embroidered with lunar runes—but there was something... coldly distant about him. Like he was part of the stone itself. Unreachable. Untouchable.
His second thought: those eyes could kill.
Pale blue, sharp as ice. And they were watching Elion like he was a bomb about to go off.
Good. Let him fear what he's binding.
The guards forced Elion to step inside the circle. He didn't resist, but he didn't bow either. The moment he crossed the glowing runes, a chill seeped into his skin.
This wasn't just magic. This was moon-bound magic—ancient and binding. It would tie his soul to Caelan's. A link that couldn't be undone.
Not even by death.
A robed priest stepped forward. "Elion of the Scarlet Line," he intoned, "you stand accused of rebellion, war crimes, and the killing of thirteen noble bloodlines."
Elion smirked. "Only thirteen? I'm losing my edge."
The younger guard flinched.
The priest ignored him. "You have been chosen for a celestial bond with His Royal Highness, Caelan of the Moonblood. Do you resist?"
Elion tilted his head, letting his black hair fall over his eyes. "Does it matter if I do?"
Caelan's voice came then. Cool. Commanding. "No."
Elion's grin faded slightly. "Didn't think so."
The priest nodded once. "Then let the ritual begin."
He stepped back, and the circle lit up—blazing silver, runes shifting, humming louder. The light wrapped around Elion's wrists and chest, threads of energy tightening like silk cords. His breath caught as one wound around his throat.
It didn't hurt.
But it felt... invasive.
Like someone was cracking open his ribs and looking straight into his soul.
And across the circle, Caelan stood still, his arms lifted slightly, runes blooming across his fingers.
Elion felt it—the tug.
Not on his body, but on something deeper. Something ancient inside him.
The bond was forming.
And it was real.
Caelan stepped forward, onto the circle, and the magic surged. A thread of silver light unspooled from his chest like a ribbon—floating toward Elion.
Elion's heart stuttered.
He hated this. Hated being vulnerable in front of them. Hated that no matter how strong his magic was, this bond made him his.
Bound. Marked. Claimed.
No. Not without a fight.
Elion raised his chin and met Caelan's eyes head-on.
"You'll regret this, Prince."
Caelan's voice was barely above a whisper, but it echoed through the chamber. "You've been regretting things since the moment you were born."
The thread reached Elion's chest.
It struck like lightning—his knees buckled, his breath left him in one painful gasp.
The bond pierced straight through his core.
Not just a connection. A merging.
For one searing second, Elion saw memories that weren't his.
A boy alone in a palace of glass. A sword drawn too early. A mother's hand gone cold. A crown he never wanted—but wore anyway.
Caelan's memories.
Then—snap—it was gone.
The magic quieted.
The circle dimmed.
Elion collapsed onto one knee, sweat dripping from his temple, lungs heaving.
He wasn't alone in his body anymore.
And neither was Caelan.
---
"Get up."
Elion opened his eyes.
Caelan stood inches away, taller now, his hand extended.
Not to help.
To order.
Elion laughed weakly and pushed himself to his feet without touching him. "No touching on the first bond? You're so old-fashioned."
Caelan stared at him, unreadable. "You're mine now."
Elion leaned closer, until their breaths almost touched.
"Keep telling yourself that, Highness. But this bond? It works both ways."
He tapped his own chest, right where the silver thread had struck.
"Now I live in you too."
Caelan didn't react—but his fingers curled into a fist at his side.
Elion caught it.
So the prince wasn't as stone-hearted as he pretended.
Good.
He was going to crack that mask—one whispered insult at a time.
---
Later, after the chamber had emptied and the priests had withdrawn, Caelan and Elion stood alone under the glass ceiling of the ritual hall.
Above them, stars blinked in silence.
Neither spoke for a long time.
Elion finally broke the quiet. "So what now, Your Grace? Collar? Chains? Or will you throw me into the dungeons and play pretend husband in front of the court?"
Caelan turned his head, the starlight catching in his silver eyes.
"You'll be living in my wing."
Elion blinked. "You're serious?"
"You're a weapon. I want you close. And if you disobey—" he looked Elion dead in the eye, "—I'll break the bond and take you down with me."
Elion let out a long, low whistle. "So dramatic."
He stepped forward, brushing past the prince—shoulder to shoulder—just enough to feel the heat of his body. "Careful, Caelan. You might find you like having me around."
Caelan didn't look at him. "I don't feel things."
Elion smirked, voice lowering to a whisper. "Then I'll make you feel everything."
He walked out, his chains gone, his power bound, but his fire completely intact.
And as he left, Caelan finally allowed himself to breathe—just once—before turning to follow.