The morning light filtered through the attic window, soft and golden, dust motes dancing like stitched stars. Ivy stirred beneath the blanket, her breath steady, her limbs no longer trembling.
She felt… warm.
Too warm.
Not cozy-warm. Fever-warm. Thread-on-fire warm.
She sat up slowly, blinking against the light, and rubbed her hand against her forehead. Her palm stung. She looked down.
A burn.
Red, raw, fresh—right across the center of her hand, like a kiss from flame.
She hadn't touched anything hot.
She hadn't cast anything.
She hadn't even moved.
Confused, she stood, legs shaky but determined, and padded down the stairs. The house was quiet, the scent of herbs and something faintly scorched lingering in the air.
"Tieran?" she called.
No answer.
She followed the smell to the kitchen.
He was there.
Back turned, sleeves rolled up, stirring something in a pan. His movements were slower today—more deliberate, more tired.
She stepped closer.
Then saw it.
The same burn.
Right across his hand.
"Tieran," she said softly.
He turned, startled. "You're awake."
She pointed. "Your hand."
He looked down. "I burned it. Cooking."
She held up hers.
His eyes widened.
"You didn't touch anything," he said.
"No."
They stared at each other.
The silence stretched.
Then Ivy whispered, "What does it mean?"
Tieran didn't answer.
Not with words.
He reached into the drawer, pulled out a small, clean blade—used for slicing herbs, not hurting people. His eyes were steady, unreadable.
"I need to test something," he said.
She didn't move.
He stepped closer.
Held her hand gently.
Then made a small cut—just beneath her thumb, shallow, careful, precise.
She winced.
Then gasped.
Because a moment later—
The same cut bloomed on his hand.
They stared.
Blood welled in perfect sync.
Same depth. Same angle. Same pain.
Ivy's breath hitched. "We're—"
"Bound," Tieran said.
She pulled her hand back, heart racing. "But the book said—life for life."
He nodded.
"If one breaks…"
"The other unravels."
She sat down hard on the floor, the world spinning slightly. "So if I die—"
"I die."
"And if you die—"
"You die."
She looked up at him, eyes wide, voice trembling. "I don't want to die."
"You won't."
"But this is—this is stitched madness."
He knelt beside her, pressing a cloth to both their hands. "It's magic. Old magic. Forbidden."
She stared at the blood soaking through the fabric. "Why would the book do this?"
"To keep balance," he said. "To keep you alive."
She blinked. "So you gave up your life for mine."
He didn't answer.
But the silence said enough.
They sat there for a long time.
Two burn marks.
Two cuts.
One thread.
The attic was quiet again.
Ivy sat cross-legged on the floor, her hand still bandaged, the burn mark pulsing faintly beneath the cloth. Tieran sat nearby, sharpening a blade with slow, deliberate strokes, the sound rhythmic and grounding.
She watched him.
Then whispered, "Do you think it's just physical?"
He looked up. "What?"
"The bond. The book said life for life. But what about thoughts? Feelings?"
He didn't answer.
So she closed her eyes.
And thought of soup.
Not just soup—the soup. The one he made with moonmint and regret. The one that tasted like safety.
She focused on the memory, stitched it into her breath, imagined the warmth of the bowl in her hands.
Tieran blinked.
Then frowned.
"I just tasted soup," he said.
She gasped. "It worked?"
He nodded slowly. "I wasn't thinking about food."
She grinned. "Okay. Next test."
She closed her eyes again.
This time, she thought of fear.
The forest. The wolves. The moment she clung to him, heart racing, breath shallow.
She stitched the memory into her chest, let it bloom like panic.
Tieran flinched.
His hand trembled.
He dropped the blade.
"Ivy," he said, voice tight.
She opened her eyes. "You felt it?"
He nodded. "Don't do that again."
She stared at him. "We're stitched together."
He didn't respond.
But his silence was loud.
That night, she dreamed.
Of thread stitched into skin.
Of a voice whispering, "You were not meant to speak."
Of Tieran standing in the forest, cloak torn, eyes glowing gold.
She woke with a gasp.
And found him already awake.
Staring at her.
"I saw it too," he said.
She blinked. "The dream?"
He nodded.
They sat in silence.
Two minds.
One thread.
The attic was quiet.
Ivy sat on the windowsill, watching the light shift across the floorboards. Her hand still ached faintly from the cut, but the burn had dulled to a whisper.
She closed her eyes.
Tried to feel him.
Not just his presence—his thoughts, his emotions, the way she had felt him flinch when she summoned fear, the way he tasted soup when she remembered it.
But now?
Nothing.
Just silence.
She turned to him. "Tieran."
He looked up from the book, eyes shadowed.
"I can't feel you," she said.
He didn't answer.
"I mean—I know you feel me. You flinched when I panicked. You tasted soup when I remembered it. But I can't feel you."
He closed the book slowly.
Then said, "You're not supposed to."
She blinked. "Why?"
He hesitated.
Then stood, walked to the far wall, and pulled back his sleeve.
There, stitched into his skin just above the elbow, was a faint mark—threaded, sealed, old.
A binding.
A seal.
"I was stitched," he said quietly. "Years ago. To protect others from my emotions."
She stared. "You sealed yourself?"
"No. Someone else did."
"Why?"
He looked away. "Because my emotions aren't safe."
She stepped closer. "But now we're bound."
He nodded.
"So you feel everything I feel."
"Yes."
"But I feel nothing from you."
"Yes."
She touched the mark gently. "That's not fair."
He didn't respond.
She sat back down, heart heavy. "So you carry all my fear. All my pain. All my dreams."
He nodded.
"And I carry… silence."
He didn't argue.
But the thread between them pulsed once—soft, steady, stitched with something deeper than fairness.
Something like sacrifice.
The attic was quiet.
Ivy sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the stitched mark on Tieran's arm—the seal that kept his emotions locked away. She could feel everything he felt from her: fear, hunger, dreams. But from him?
Nothing.
Just silence.
"I want to break it," she said.
Tieran looked up from the book, eyes shadowed. "You shouldn't."
"I need to feel you."
"You already do."
"No," she said, voice rising. "You feel me. You carry everything. I carry nothing. That's not a bond. That's a burden."
He didn't respond.
So she stood, walked to the book, and placed her hand on its cover.
It pulsed.
Once.
Then again.
The pages fluttered open.
The air shifted.
The attic darkened—not with shadow, but with weight. The kind of silence that feels stitched into your bones.
Symbols rearranged themselves across the parchment, glowing faintly.
And then—
"The seal is imbalance."
Ivy leaned closer. "Can it be broken?"
"Yes."
Tieran stepped forward. "At what cost?"
The book shimmered.
"Emotion for emotion. Pain for pain. Thread for thread."
Ivy frowned. "What does that mean?"
"To feel him, you must carry him. All of him."
Tieran's breath hitched.
"The seal holds grief. Rage. Memory. If you break it, you will feel everything he has ever buried."
Ivy stared at Tieran.
He looked away.
"I want to," she said softly.
"No," he said instantly.
"I need to."
"You don't know what's inside me."
"I want to."
He turned to her, eyes fierce. "You'll drown."
She stepped closer. "Then drown with me."
The book pulsed again.
A new symbol appeared—stitched in red, glowing faintly.
A thread of reversal.
A dangerous stitch.
"Touch the seal. Speak the thread. Share the burden."
Ivy reached out.
Tieran grabbed her wrist.
"Ivy—"
She looked at him. "I want to know you."
He didn't speak.
But he didn't stop her.
She touched the seal.
Spoke the thread.
The attic exploded with light.
She collapsed.
Tieran fell beside her.
And for the first time—
She felt him.
Grief like fire.
Loneliness like frost.
Memories stitched into silence.
She gasped.
He cried out.
The thread pulsed between them—wild, raw, alive.
They didn't speak.
They couldn't.
But they felt.
Everything.
The attic was dim, the light fading into dusk. Ivy sat at the edge of the window, knees pulled to her chest, watching the sky unravel into threads of orange and violet. Tieran stood behind her, arms crossed, the book pulsing faintly in his cloak.
"You remember why I hired you," he said.
She didn't turn.
"I needed someone threadsbound. Someone who could open the portal."
Still, she said nothing.
"Ivy."
She looked down at her hands—burned, bandaged, stitched with effort and silence.
"I don't want to open it," she said softly.
He stepped closer. "That's what you were brought here to do."
"I want to uplift the emotions first. The ones you sealed. The ones you buried."
He didn't respond.
She turned to face him, eyes steady. "You carry too much. If I open the portal now, it'll tear you apart."
He stared at her.
Then said, "If you help me with what I want… I'll let you do what you need."
She blinked.
Then stood.
And smiled.
The next morning, Ivy was different.
Not loud. Not playful.
But focused.
She packed her satchel with thread, herbs, and a charm kit stitched with quiet hope. Tieran followed her into the forest, silent as ever, watching her move like she belonged to the trees.
They searched for wild materials—moonmint, whisperroot, memory moss. Ivy plucked each with care, her fingers trembling slightly, her breath shallow.
She didn't speak much.
She didn't eat.
She stitched.
And tried.
Days passed.
She grew paler.
Quieter.
Meals went untouched. Her hands shook from hunger, but she kept casting—thread circles, charm loops, emotional anchors. Tieran watched from the attic doorway, unsure whether to stop her or let her burn.
She stitched through sunrise.
Through rain.
Through silence.
Then, one evening—
The attic glowed.
Not with candlelight.
But with threadlight.
Ivy stood in the center of the room, arms outstretched, eyes wide, breath ragged. Her charm circle pulsed beneath her feet, stitched with wild herbs and memory moss. The book sat open beside her, pages fluttering like wings.
Tieran stepped forward. "Ivy?"
She didn't respond.
She was chanting.
Thread humming.
Air shifting.
Then—
The portal opened.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't violent.
It was… stitched.
A tear in the air, glowing faintly, shimmering like breath. The forest beyond it was not their forest—darker, older, stitched with symbols that pulsed in rhythm with the book.
Tieran stared.
Then barged in.
No hesitation.
No fear.
Just purpose.
Ivy gasped. "Wait—"
But he was already gone.
She grabbed the book.
And followed.
The portal shimmered.
Then closed.
The attic was empty.
The thread was gone.
But the bond remained.