They woke me before dawn.No words, no torchlight — only the sound of keys and the soft hiss of rain dripping through the cracks. The guards said nothing as they chained my wrists. Their silence was worse than insult. It was pity.
When they dragged me through the corridor, I caught the faint smell of incense and iron. Judgment was waiting.
The doors of the Great Hall groaned open, and I was met with light — blinding, gold, and cold.
Every banner hung heavy with dew. The crests of the Great Houses lined the walls:
the grey wolf of House Durnhart,
the golden sun of House Virelion,
the black serpent of House Malvren,
the white scales of House Aurelthane,
and the lion of House Valebryn.
Beyond them hung the ancient emblems of the allied realms —
the silver tree of Veilwood, and the hammer of Khaz Torun —
united not by treaty, but by the shame they came to witness
And beside them, my father. Hands clasped, jaw locked, eyes refusing to find mine.
The hall was filled to bursting: nobles in polished mail, priesthoods of both races, scholars, envoys — and the House of Aurelthane, cloaked in black and gold, whose word shaped the law. They stood just behind the king, silent and watching.
I was brought to my knees.
The herald's voice rang out like a blade drawn across stone:"Arlen Valebryn, accused of defiling Her Grace, Princess Lirael of the Veilwood — stand before the crowns and speak."
Lirael stood opposite me, pale as frost, her wrists bound in silver runes. Her eyes were downcast, unreadable. She looked nothing like the girl I'd met beneath the lanterns of the Coming of Age ceremony — the one who'd laughed when I stumbled through the Elvish greeting and spilled wine on my boots.Now she was a symbol. A wound carved in gold and silence.
The murmurs began even before I could answer.
One of the elven lords, his voice sharp as a blade, spoke first:"The Veilwood demands blood. Her mother, Queen Ilanwen, has sent word: only death may cleanse this insult."
The dwarves muttered among themselves — the sound like grinding stone. Then the Dwarven Prince, Brogar of Khaz Torun, rose from his seat and struck the butt of his hammer on the floor."Death?" he said, voice low and resonant. "Too swift. Let him suffer what she suffers. Let his breath burn with her pain. Let him know no sleep, no rest — until the Maker himself pities him."
The chamber stirred.Even the elves fell silent.
Then, from the king's side, one of the Judicars stepped forward, robes whispering like dry parchment."The law of men forbids the blood of nobles to be spilled without the Crown's consent," he intoned. "But the law of oaths allows a greater punishment — the Mark of Bond. It is ancient, binding, and just."
The words struck like thunder.A murmur rippled through the hall — sharp, fearful, knowing. The Mark of Bond had not been invoked in centuries. Even children knew what it meant: two souls entwined in pain, one wound reflected through another until both were hollowed by it.
The king leaned forward, voice grave:"You stand accused of violating the peace between realms, Arlen Valebryn. Do you deny the charge?"
I forced myself to speak. My voice cracked but I held it."I do not remember, my king. I swear it. There was music, and light — then nothing. I would not harm her. I swear it before the Maker."
Laughter rippled from the court — cold, mocking, too human.
My father said nothing.
An elven envoy sneered. "Convenient, that your memory fails where honor should stand."
"I'm telling the truth!" I snapped, and the echo of my voice carried through the hall like a lash.Then softer, breaking, "Please… I don't know what happened."
But truth has no weight when guilt is already chosen.
The Judicars whispered among themselves. The priests brought forth a chain of blackened silver — etched with runes that pulsed faintly like dying embers. The same kind the old texts described as "woven from breath and sin."
The king rose to his feet. His crown caught the morning light — or maybe the light fled from it."By decree of the crowns," he said, voice low but unyielding, "and in accord with the will of Veilwood and Khaz Torun, Arlen Valebryn shall bear the Mark of Bond. The pain he has sown shall bind him. The grief he has birthed shall follow him. And when all feeling is spent, the Maker may judge his soul."
The priests fastened the chain — one end to my wrist, one to hers.
The pain struck like a white flame. I felt her gasp, and in it, my own.Her sorrow, her terror, her despair — they tore through me until I could not tell which heartbeat was mine.I saw flashes behind my eyes: the cold marble of her chamber, her tears, her scream swallowed by silence, her mother's face bending over her like a blade of judgment. Every horror that haunted her became mine.
When it was over, a sigil burned into the skin above my veins — faint, living, and cruel.
The Judicar spoke again, his voice now more ritual than human:"The Mark of Bond binds two fates as one. Their pain shall be shared, their wounds echoed, their rest denied unless within two chambers' reach. Should the guilty stray beyond that distance, his heart shall ache as though torn from within — an emptiness that devours, a grief that cannot be named. The bond favors the wronged; her will shapes the tether, her strength dictates its weight. To break it is to die."
Then came the words I'd feared most:"For this crime," the king declared, "you are exiled to the Banewall, to serve the Oathbound until your bond is spent or your breath fails."
A silence followed — so complete that even the rain seemed to hold its breath.
And then, the doors of the Great Hall shuddered and flung open.
A wind swept through, carrying the scent of ash and frost. Torches guttered. Shadows recoiled.
A figure stepped in — tall, armored in dark iron and cloak of storm-grey. His eyes were red, ringed with black veins that pulsed faintly as he moved. But it was his hair that caught every gaze — black, impossibly black, yet so bright it seemed to drink the light around it.
The air itself bent around him. The court fell silent.
When he spoke, the sound seemed to come from everywhere at once."I am Kael of the Eidbark," he said. "Sworn to the Wall. By the summons of your kings, I come to claim the guilty."
Even the king's voice trembled when he answered."Then the judgment is sealed. He is yours."
Kael's eyes turned to me — and the mark on my wrist burned anew."Rise, Arlen Valebryn," he said, his voice soft and terrible. "The Banewall awaits. Pray it hungers for mercy."
And as the great doors closed behind him, I knew no prayer would ever reach that far.
The sound of Kael's voice still hung in the air when the king spoke again — his tone now heavy, final, stripped of all fatherhood.
"Before he is taken," the king said, "there remains one decree."
The hall stirred. I lifted my head, though the weight of the chain between us dragged me back down.
"By the will of the Crown, and with witness of the Veilwood and Khaz Torun," he continued, "Arlen Valebryn is hereby cast out from his name, his blood, and his birthright. He shall bear no sigil, no title, no inheritance of men. From this moment, he is nameless — his lineage struck from every record, his memory unspoken in this hall."
The herald repeated it — louder, like a curse that needed to echo through stone."Arlen Valebryn is no more."
A low murmur swept through the chamber, spreading like a sickness.Nobles whispered prayers to keep my shame from touching theirs.Elves turned their faces aside in cold triumph.Dwarves grunted in grim satisfaction.
I searched for a face — any face — that might still see me as I was.
My eyes found my grandfather first, seated among the elder lords. His gaze was hard, like forged steel — the same look he'd worn the day I failed my first hunt. But this time there was no lesson in it, no patience. Only disappointment, final and absolute.
Then I looked for my sister. She stood near the edge of the dais, hands trembling at her sides. Her eyes met mine — wide, wet, pleading — but before I could speak, our father's voice cut the air like a blade.
"Look away, Serenya."
And she did.
That was the moment it broke — whatever hope I had left.
The guards seized me by the arms, tearing me from the dais. My knees scraped against the marble floor. The chain between Lirael and I tugged once — just enough for the mark to flare and for me to feel her heart quicken in terror.
The Aurelthanes raised their staves, sealing the rite with a final incantation. The runes along the chain pulsed red, then black, before dimming into silence.
As they dragged me toward the doors, whispers followed like knives to the back:
"Monster.""Defiler.""Banewall meat.""May the Maker forget him."
I tried to call out to my father, one last time — not as a plea, but simply to hear him answer me as his son.
But he never turned his head.
The great doors of the hall opened once more, and the light of judgment poured out into the rain.
Outside, Kael waited. The Eidbark's eyes glowed faintly beneath his hood as the guards threw me at his feet.
He looked down at me — not with cruelty, but with something colder: understanding.
"This is the part," he said quietly, "where you stop belonging to the world."
I almost laughed. Not out of humor — out of disbelief. I'd been stripped of my name, my house, and every scrap of dignity, and yet some stupid part of me still wanted to argue.I'm Arlen Valebryn.Or I was.
The doors slammed shut behind me, cutting off the warmth and noise of the hall. Someone spoke my name one last time — like a curse spat into the rain. Then even that vanished, swallowed by the storm.
Pain bloomed behind my ribs — sudden, searing. The bond.It pulsed once, twice, then dug in like claws.Her pain hit me — not her body's, but her heart's.A hollow ache, deep and endless, the kind that made the air itself feel wrong.Through the mark I felt her — the tremor of her breath, the quiet sob she didn't let anyone hear.
It tore through me, and for a moment I almost staggered. Almost.I clenched my jaw and forced the weakness down. If this was her sorrow, I'd carry it — but I wouldn't let them see me break.
Still, I couldn't escape the emptiness that followed. Like a piece of me had been ripped away and left bleeding in that hall beside her.
That was the nature of the Bond — the dwarves' justice, the elves' mercy.If I strayed too far, the pain would worsen. Two chambers apart, and the emptiness would become agony. A thousand miles, and it might just kill me.Fitting, I supposed. The world had always wanted to see how far I could fall.
Kael walked ahead, silent, the runes on his cloak sparking faintly in the rain. The courtyard stretched before us, a sea of stone and shadow.
I looked back once — at the spires of the castle, still gleaming even through the storm.My home. My ruin.I half expected to see my sister in the window, or my grandfather's shadow — someone, anyone.Nothing. Only light. Only silence.
The guards turned away as we passed. Even their pity was too loud.
When the gates shut behind me, the sound didn't echo. It settled — heavy, final.
I told myself I didn't care. That I'd survive this, as I'd survived every other humiliation.But as the rain slid down my face, cold and bitter, I couldn't tell if it was water or the bond reminding me of her tears.
The rain didn't wash my shame away. It only reminded me that I could still feel it — and that feeling was the cruelest mercy of all.