The Stolen Heir’s Bond

Elaria Dain had spent years perfecting the art of disappearing.

In the marketplace, she kept her hood low. In the village, she walked with her shoulders hunched, avoiding the eyes of those who whispered about witches and cursed bloodlines. And in the deep woods, where no one dared tread after dark, she hid the one thing that could see her burned at the stake—her magic.

But none of her caution mattered now.

A man lay dying in the snow before her.

His breath came in ragged gasps, mist curling above his lips. His clothes—torn, soaked in blood—marked him as a soldier, but not one of Lord Varos's men. He bore no sigil of the king's steward, the man who had ruled Ravaryn with an iron fist for the past decade. Instead, his armor was blackened with soot, his cloak shredded, as if he had barely escaped a battle.

Elaria should have turned away. Should have let him fade into the cold, as so many others had before him.

But something about him—his face, perhaps, or the way his fingers curled around the hilt of his broken sword—kept her rooted in place.

With a whispered curse, she knelt beside him, pressing a hand to his chest. Blood seeped between her fingers. The wound was deep. Too deep. He wouldn't last the night.

Unless—

No.

Magic always left a trace. The moment she used it, the moment someone saw, it would be her head on the executioner's block. She had spent years keeping her gift hidden. She had watched her mother die for it.

And yet…

The man shuddered. A groan, barely audible, slipped from his lips.

Elaria clenched her teeth.

Damn it all.

She pressed her palms against his chest and let the magic flow.

Warmth coiled beneath her skin, rising like the tide. The air shimmered, the scent of burning herbs filling her lungs. She felt the broken edges of his ribs, the torn flesh knitting back together beneath her touch. Pain lanced through her, as it always did, but she forced herself to hold on.

The man gasped. His back arched. And then, his eyes flew open.

Gold.

Not the dull gold of coins, but bright, molten fire.

Elaria's breath caught.

Before she could move, his hand shot up, clamping around her wrist. "Who are you?" His voice was hoarse, rough with pain.

Fear slammed into her, sharp and blinding. She yanked her arm free, staggering to her feet. She had to run. Had to disappear before—

"Wait." He sat up, wincing, his fingers grazing his now-healed wound. His gaze flickered from her to the bloodstained snow. Realization dawned.

"You're a healer," he said slowly.

No. Not just a healer. A witch.

Elaria took a step back.

The man exhaled, his breath still unsteady, but his expression shifted—calculating, intent. "You saved my life."

"Forget you saw me," she whispered.

But before she could turn, the sound of distant hooves echoed through the trees.

The man's eyes darkened. "They've found me."

Elaria's heart pounded.

"Who?"

The answer came not from him, but from the shadows shifting between the trees.

Black-armored riders, their sigils unmistakable.

Varos's men.

And they had come for him.

For the prince of Ravaryn.