Ayra woke before dawn because her stomach hurt.
Hunger had a way of pulling her out of sleep more reliably than any alarm. She lay still on the thin mat she shared with her younger cousin, staring at the dark ceiling of their small room, listening to the village breathe. Somewhere nearby, a rooster crowed too early. From outside came the faint sound of footsteps and low voices, people already awake, already working.
Border villages did not sleep deeply. War lived too close.
Ayra sat up slowly, careful not to wake Mara, and reached for her boots. The leather was cracked from age, the soles uneven from years of walking the same rough paths. She tied them anyway. There was work to be done, and work meant food, even if it was barely enough to quiet the ache.
Outside, the air was cold and smelled of damp earth. Smoke drifted lazily from a few cooking fires, curling toward a sky still painted in dark blue and gray. The village looked the same as it always did, small, tired, and trying very hard to pretend it was safe.
Ayra crossed the dirt road toward the healer's hut, her hands tucked into her sleeves. The healer, Old Bren, paid her in scraps and bread for helping grind herbs and clean wounds. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.
She had just reached the hut when Bren's voice called out, sharp with urgency.
"You're late."
Ayra pushed the door open. "I came as fast as I could."
Bren grunted, already turning away. "Help me with this one."
A man lay on the cot, his leg wrapped in blood-soaked cloth. Ayra recognized him, a farmer who lived near the ridge. His face was pale, sweat shining on his skin.
"What happened?" she asked quietly as she reached for fresh bandages.
"Raiders," the man muttered. "Scouts, maybe. Didn't stay long."
Ayra's hands paused for just a moment.
That made three reports this week.
She finished cleaning the wound, her movements practiced and gentle. As she worked, she felt the familiar knot tighten in her chest. Raiders meant soldiers were close. Soldiers meant the war was shifting again, creeping nearer, as it always did.
By midday, the village buzzed with unease. People spoke in hushed tones, glancing toward the hills more often than usual. Ayra carried water from the river, her arms aching, her thoughts heavy. She tried not to imagine fire. Tried not to imagine screams. Tried not to imagine names being called that would never be answered.
War had already taken enough.
In the late afternoon, Ayra stood by the river, scrubbing cloth against smooth stone. The water was cold and numbed her fingers, but she welcomed the pain. It kept her mind quiet.
That was when the sound reached her.
Not shouting. Not yet.
Horses.
Her head lifted slowly.
The sound was distant but unmistakable, the rhythmic thunder of hooves moving too fast, too many to be merchants or travelers. Ayra's breath caught. She straightened, scanning the tree line.
Then she saw smoke.
Not the gentle kind that rose from hearth fires, but thick and dark, climbing quickly into the sky.
Her heart began to pound.
"Ayra!"
She turned to see Mara running toward the river, her face pale, her eyes wide with fear.
"They're coming," Mara said, grabbing her arm. "The soldiers. They're already at the ridge."
Ayra dropped the cloth into the water.
"Where's my aunt?" she asked, though dread had already answered for her.
Mara shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. "She told me to run."
Ayra closed her eyes for a brief second, forcing herself to breathe. There was no time to mourn. Survival came first. It always did.
"Follow me," she said.
They ran.
The village erupted into chaos as they reached it. People shouted warnings. Children cried. Flames leapt from rooftops, devouring dry wood with terrifying speed. Armed men poured in from the north, their armor dark, their banners unfamiliar.
Ayra pulled Mara through narrow paths between houses, avoiding the main road. The sound of steel clashing rang in her ears. Somewhere nearby, magic crackled, sharp and violent, sending a wave of heat through the air.
They were almost past the fields when the ground trembled.
Ayra stumbled, losing her balance. A flash of light exploded behind her, and pain slammed into her back as if the world itself had struck her down. She hit the earth hard, the breath knocked from her lungs.
Something cold wrapped around her chest.
Not hands. Not rope.
Magic.
It sank into her skin, heavy and burning at the same time. Ayra gasped, clutching at her chest as heat surged through her veins. Her vision blurred, light bleeding into darkness.
The last thing she heard was Mara screaming her name.
Ayra woke to stone beneath her back and a sharp ache behind her eyes.
She tried to move, but her body refused. Panic rose, fast and wild, until she realized it wasn't her strength that was failing her—it was the magic holding her in place.
Glowing symbols surrounded her, etched into the floor in patterns she did not recognize. The air hummed faintly, thick with power.
She turned her head.
Across from her, bound by the same glowing light, knelt a man in dark armor.
Even restrained, he looked dangerous.
His armor bore unfamiliar markings, his sword lying just out of reach. Blood traced a line down his temple, but his posture was rigid, controlled. His gaze lifted slowly, locking onto hers with unsettling intensity.
Ayra knew who he was immediately.
Prince Alric.
The enemy crown prince. The name whispered with fear along every border village.
Her heart raced.
Pain suddenly ripped through her chest, sharp, blinding, not her own.
She cried out, clutching at herself.
Prince Alric's jaw tightened, his breath hitching as if he felt it too.
"What is this?" he demanded, his voice low and strained.
Ayra shook her head, struggling to breathe. "I don't know. I didn't do this."
The symbols beneath them flared brighter.
Something shifted deep inside her, settling into place like a lock turning. She felt it then, not just pain, but awareness. A presence pressed against her mind, unfamiliar and heavy.
Him.
Her pulse echoed in her ears as understanding dawned, cold and terrifying.
She was bound.
Not by chains.
Not by choice.
By magic older than the war that had destroyed her life.
Prince Alric stared at her, his expression dark with realization.
"This bond," he said quietly. "It should not exist."
Ayra swallowed hard, fear and anger twisting together inside her.
"Then why does it feel like it's already claimed us?"
The magic answered by tightening its hold.
And somewhere beyond the glowing symbols, unseen forces watched in silence, satisfied.