The second allowance was shorter.
Five minutes.
No spectators.
No council scribes.
No unnecessary witnesses.
Only stone, sigils, and three people who understood too well what silence could do.
Veyla entered the chamber first.
She felt different this time—less sharp pain, more awareness. The ache beneath her ribs had learned a new shape, one that reacted faster, subtler, as if anticipating what was coming.
Khorg arrived moments later.
He looked worse.
Dark shadows bruised beneath his eyes, jaw set hard enough to ache. His wolf paced close to the surface now, agitation leaking through every line of his posture.
The door sealed.
Khorg's nose twitched violently.
The scent reached him immediately—thicker than before, heavier with something warm and dangerous that made his wolf surge forward with a low, desperate sound.
Mate.
Claim.
Stay.
His stomach clenched, but the nausea was muted this time, dulled by exhaustion and something else—adaptation.
That frightened him.
"Five minutes," Veyla said quietly, anchoring herself.
Khorg nodded once. "Your distance."
She stepped forward.
One ring.
The bond tightened.
Two rings.
Heat bloomed beneath her skin, sharper than before, but no longer chaotic. It settled, focused—like pressure instead of pain.
Khorg's breath hitched.
His wolf surged violently, thrilled by the proximity, while his body reacted slower this time, nausea lagging behind instinct.
He clenched his fists, grounding himself in the rough scrape of stone beneath his boots.
"You're closer," he said hoarsely.
"Yes," Veyla replied. "Tell me if it's too much."
Too much.
The words echoed inside him.
He had endured battlefields soaked in blood. He had held dying men in his arms without flinching.
This—this careful permission—unmade him.
"Not yet," he said.
Veyla stopped at the third ring again.
The bond pulsed—warm, insistent, terrifyingly *steady*.
The silence stretched.
Khorg's wolf quieted, confused by the absence of pain. His stomach churned faintly, but did not revolt.
Instead, something else took its place.
Longing.
Pure, sharp, unfiltered.
"Veyla," he said before he could stop himself.
She looked up.
The bond flared—not violently, but intimately. Heat rushed through her chest, making her breath catch.
"Yes?"
Khorg swallowed hard.
"I don't—" He broke off, jaw tightening. "This feels wrong."
She nodded slowly. "I know."
"Not the pain," he clarified. "The lack of it."
Her heart stuttered.
They both felt it then—the absence that pressed closer than agony ever had. The way their bodies leaned toward equilibrium, toward something dangerously close to comfort.
Khorg took one unconscious half-step forward—
—and stopped.
The bond flared warningly.
He froze, breath ragged.
"Sorry," he rasped.
Veyla shook her head. "You stopped."
Again.
That mattered more than she wanted to admit.
Minutes bled away too quickly.
The ache sharpened, not from closeness—but from knowing it would end.
Khorg felt it too, the hollow anticipation coiling in his chest.
When the door opened, the interruption felt brutal.
Madame Zora stood there.
She did not step inside.
She did not speak.
She only watched.
"Time," the aide said distantly.
Veyla inhaled slowly.
She took one step back.
The relief hit instantly—and so did the loss.
Khorg gasped.
The nausea vanished completely, replaced by a sharp, hollow ache that made his chest feel too tight. His wolf snarled in protest, claws scraping violently.
Veyla swayed, hand flying to her chest.
Zora's eyes sharpened.
She still did nothing.
The door closed.
The aftermath was worse.
Veyla did not collapse—but she nearly did.
Zora caught her arm just in time, grip firm and unyielding.
"Breathe," the witch murmured. "Don't fight it."
Veyla obeyed, drawing in slow, careful breaths as the ache surged, peaked, and finally receded into a low, persistent throb.
"That was different," Veyla said quietly.
Zora nodded. "Yes."
Khorg stood rigid across the chamber, chest heaving, eyes wild with something dangerously close to panic.
"I didn't get sick," he said hoarsely. "I should have."
Zora studied him with unnerving calm.
"No," she replied. "You adapted."
Khorg's wolf snarled, unsettled.
Veyla's heart pounded. "That's bad."
Zora's smile was thin. "It's *informative*."
The witch finally stepped fully into the room.
"You both felt it," she said. "The pull toward balance. Toward comfort."
Khorg clenched his fists. "That's what bonds are supposed to do."
"Yes," Zora agreed. "And that's exactly the problem."
She turned to Veyla.
"The seal isn't breaking," Zora said softly. "It's adjusting."
Veyla's breath caught.
"Meaning?" she asked.
"Meaning," Zora replied, "that the bond is learning how to exist without hurting you."
Khorg's eyes widened slightly.
"That's good," he said instinctively.
Zora looked at him.
"No," she said flatly. "It's not."
Silence fell.
"If closeness stops hurting," Zora continued, "you'll stop respecting distance. You'll seek comfort instead of control."
Veyla understood instantly.
"And the seal?" she asked.
Zora's gaze sharpened. "Responds to surrender."
Khorg felt something cold slide down his spine.
Veyla swallowed. "So why didn't you stop it?"
Zora smiled faintly.
"Because you needed to feel it," she said. "And so did they."
She gestured loosely—toward Khorg, toward the unseen presence of Vinculus beyond the chamber.
"Next time," Zora added, "it will feel even easier."
Khorg's breath came shallow. "Then we don't do it again."
Zora tilted her head. "You think you'll be allowed to refuse?"
The implication settled heavily.
Veyla straightened slowly.
"We'll manage it," she said, voice steady despite the ache. "Like before."
Zora's smile deepened—proud, dangerous.
"Good," she murmured. "Because management is the only thing standing between you and awakening."
As they left the chamber, the bond pulsed—not painfully, not violently—
—but warmly.
And somewhere deep within the seal, something ancient shifted, attentive now, no longer sleeping.