Bound by Magic And Blood

Ezekeil's eyes snapped open, heart pounding against his ribs. Moonlight filtered through the cracks in the wooden shutters, casting faint patterns across his room. His breath came in uneven gasps as he pressed a hand to his chest.

"That dream again..." he muttered, his voice rough with frustration.

He lay there, staring at the wooden beams above, the fragments of the dream searing into his mind. But it had been different this time — unsettlingly so.

In the dream, he hadn't relived the binding ceremony as usual. Instead, he'd watched it unfold as though he were merely a spectator.

The scene shimmered before his mind's eye: the ancient hall shrouded in swirling light, sigils etched into the stone floor glowing with magic. A younger version of himself stood at the center, tense yet resolute. Opposite him was a crying infant—Mekeala. Her tiny fists flailed as luminous tendrils of magic wound between them.

Ezekeil's younger self hesitated, eyes wide with confusion, but instinct compelled him forward. He knelt, reaching toward the wailing child with trembling hands. A protective urge surged through him, fierce and inexplicable.

Watching from the dream's detached perspective, Ezekeil clenched his fists. Even now, years later, that same need to shield her gnawed at his heart.

The dream shifted abruptly. Esme appeared, her figure wreathed in shimmering light. Her lips moved, but no sound reached his ears. Her eyes, however, bore into him with a weight that felt like judgment. Her silent presence was both haunting and ominous.

Ezekeil bolted upright, shaking off the remnants of the dream. "Enough," he growled, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

The cool night air stung his skin as he stepped outside. The village lay cloaked in darkness, with only flickering lights dancing sporadically in the distance.

Ezekeil's hand instinctively went to the dagger strapped to his side. His muscles tensed as the lights drew closer, weaving erratically through the air.

Fairies.

He exhaled sharply, lowering his guard. "Just stupid fairies," he muttered, shaking his head.

The tiny, glowing creatures flitted around him, their wings shimmering like fragments of starlight. They chirped and spiraled playfully before scattering into the trees.

Ignoring them, Ezekeil made his way to the stream. The cold water stung his face as he splashed it over his skin, chasing away the lingering weight of the dream.

His reflection wavered in the rippling water, distorted and fragmented—much like his thoughts.

From a distance, hidden within the shadows, Esme watched Ezekeil's every move. Her sharp eyes never wavered as he knelt by the stream, lost in his thoughts.

Two weeks had passed, and still, she had found no evidence of ill intent from him. Yet her instincts whispered that there was more to Ezekeil than met the eye.

"He's guarded, careful," she thought, narrowing her eyes. "But is that because he means harm... or because he's hiding something else?"

Her chest tightened with uncertainty. Mekeala was more than just a queen to Esme—she was someone worth protecting at any cost.

If Ezekeil posed a threat, Esme knew what needed to be done. But if he was truly bound to Mekeala by ancient magic, severing that bond might destroy them both.

The weight of the decision gnawed at her, leaving her torn between loyalty and caution.

With a heavy sigh, Esme turned and made her way back toward the village.

Elrond's study was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of aged parchment and burning sage. The elder sat amidst stacks of ancient texts, his eyes flicking over the brittle pages of a tome.

Esme entered silently, her expression grim.

"Elrond," she began, "we need to talk."

The elder looked up, his gaze steady. "About Ezekeil, I presume."

Esme nodded, sinking into a chair across from him. "He has the same mark as Mekeala," she said solemnly. "I'm almost certain he's her bound groom."

Elrond's expression darkened, the weight of her words settling heavily between them. "If he truly is the one, what do you intend to do?"

Esme hesitated, her voice faltering. "I don't know," she admitted. "He's still guarded around us. I can't tell if he's a threat or..." she trailed off, conflicted.

"Or something else entirely?" Elrond finished for her, his tone grave.

She nodded silently.

Elrond leaned back, folding his hands over his lap. "We must tread carefully, Esme. His presence may mean more than we realize."

His eyes glinted with a hard edge. "But if he proves to be a danger to the queen, we will act swiftly. Regardless of ancient bonds."

The finality in his words sent a chill down Esme's spine.

"I understand," she said quietly, though doubt lingered in her heart.

As she left the study, her mind swirled with questions. Who was Ezekeil truly? And what role would he play in the fate of Caelithar?

Only time would reveal the answers—but Esme knew one thing for certain: she would be watching. Always.