Blood Bond

The first hint of dawn was a reluctant grey seeping through the heavy cloth curtains of my guest chamber at Moonshade. I blinked, the unfamiliar pattern of the canopy above disorienting me for a moment before the previous night's bitter memories slammed back: Stonehand's looming presence, the Earl's betrayal, Blaire's stinging slap. A prisoner, albeit a comfortably housed one, awaiting a journey to an unknown fate.

A soft knock, then the door creaked open. Kael stepped inside, his movements quiet. The bruises on his face had begun to yellow at the edges, and he still moved with a faint stiffness, but the raw exhaustion from the barn had lessened. He was unarmed, his sword belt absent, a stark reminder of our captive state. He offered a brief, respectful nod. "Your Highness. Lord Stonehand will expect us to depart within the hour."

I pushed myself upright, the fine linen sheets pooling around me. As I did, my gaze fell upon the front of my simple nightgown. Dark, rust-colored stains bloomed across the fabric, stark against the pale cream. My breath caught. Not again.

It must be that when I switch over to Earth, I lose active control over the healing, or it becomes unstable. Still, this was another infuriating physical betrayal, one more thing to manage on top of everything else. I remembered, with a grimace, my moon cycle – the monthly courses of blood that had been my primary nuisance. This, somehow, felt worse – a constant, unpredictable reminder of my violation, and the alien power within. The other side of me recoiled at the memories of what I had to deal with, that first day when I went crying to Mother in alarm. She had told me what I tell myself now: "It's just something we as women have to deal with."

I forced the uncomfortable memories down. "Kael," I began, my voice a little rough, "your wound. Did it… did it bleed much during the night?"

Kael's gaze flickered briefly to my stained nightgown, then quickly away, a hint of understanding – or perhaps just professional discretion – in his eyes. "Just a little, Your Highness. Nothing to be concerned about."

I wasn't entirely convinced. He had a habit of downplaying his own discomfort for my sake. But there was no time to press him. The simple blue silk dress provided by Moonshade's maids lay folded on a nearby chair. It would have to do.

By the time I, dressed and outwardly composed, followed Kael into the main courtyard, the sun had climbed higher, painting the old stones of Moonshade Estate in a warm, golden light. It was, infuriatingly, a beautiful day.

Lord Stonehand's cavalry was already assembled, the sight stealing the breath from my lungs. A formidable wave of mounted warriors filled the wide courtyard, an ocean of dark steel under the bright morning sun. Their armor was impressively uniform: heavy plate unlike Aethelgard's gleaming silver guard – this was darker, starker, brutally pragmatic. Strange, watered patterns, sheened blue, rippled across the steel, catching the light in sudden, fiery glints against the deep grey, hinting at a power that felt ancient and immovable, born of the mountains themselves. They bore standardized swords or axes with a disciplined readiness that projected a wall of menacing iron. Against this force, Aethelgard's proud guard seemed almost fragile.

Stonehand spotted Kael and me approaching and barked an order. One of his men dismounted and strode towards Kael, taking the reins of a plain packhorse carrying what I assumed were our few salvaged belongings. Kael's face tightened, but he offered no protest as he was gestured towards the rear of the column where the baggage train was. Clearly, he was not to ride with the main contingent.

Stonehand then beckoned me forward with a curt nod. "Princess. Time to move."

I approached his warhorse, the sheer size of the animal intimidating. "I… I don't know how to ride, Lord Stonehand," I admitted, the words feeling small and inadequate. Of course, I didn't. I was the porcelain doll princess after all. And while I had ridden a bike on Earth, a horse was something else entirely. Another failing, then, another mark of my utter uselessness. The bitterness of it was a familiar taste.

A gruff sound, something that might have been a laugh or a snort of exasperation, rumbled in Stonehand's chest. "Figures." Without further comment, he leaned down, and before I could fully comprehend his intent, a powerful arm snaked around my waist. A startled yelp escaped me as I was effortlessly lifted. He deposited me somewhat unceremoniously onto the broad space in front of his saddle, turning me so I sat sideways, my silk skirt pooling awkwardly around my legs. Both my legs were off to one side, and I instinctively grabbed for the thick pommel with one hand, my other bracing against his armored chest to steady myself. The position felt precarious, and I was acutely aware of his solid form behind and around me, the scent of leather, horse, and old steel overwhelming my senses.

A wave of murmurs rippled through the ranks of Stonehand's men. My cheeks burned, and I could catch snippets of their rough voices.

"Looks like Old Stonehand's got himself some sweet honey for the road."

"Heard he carried her back to her room like a sack of feathers last night after she swooned. Bridal style, they said!"

Another, coarser voice chimed in, "Still got some fire in the old bear, eh? Even if she's young enough to be his great-granddaughter!

Stonehand's head snapped around, his eyes, like chips of gold in his weathered face, blazing under the brim of his helm. "SILENCE, YOU CURS!" he bellowed, his voice a gravelly explosion that rolled over the courtyard, drowning out the morning birdsong. "Or by the Flames of Ironfell, I'll have the hides off the lot of you and use 'em for saddlebags! Princess here, is with me. Show some respect, or I'll teach it to you with the blade of my axe!"

He didn't just roar; he thundered. The men, previously leering, now sat straighter in their saddles, their gazes fixed forward, all traces of amusement wiped from their faces.

The sheer, untamed power of his voice was brutal against my ears, but there was a boisterous quality to it that stabbed at me with memory: my father with his bear of a body, sweeping me off my feet in his large arms, his laughter booming through the castle halls as he called me his 'treasure.' The comparison was jarring, uncomfortable, and it left a brief, sharp ache in its wake before I pushed it aside.

With a curt nod from Stonehand that I felt more than saw, the warhorse beneath us surged forward, its powerful gait surprisingly smooth despite its size. The column of Ironfell cavalry fell into motion behind us, a river of dark steel flowing out of Moonshade's gates. I clutched the pommel tighter, the rhythmic sway of the horse a disorienting sensation.

We rode in silence for a time, the only sounds the rhythmic clopping of hooves, the jingle of harness, and the distant calls of birds. The sun climbed higher, warming my face, but it did little to dispel the chill that had settled deep in my bones. Pressed against Stonehand's broad, armored chest for balance, I could feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle shift of his powerful muscles as he controlled the great warhorse. But most of all, I felt his blood flowing through his arteries, alongside mine.

The night was still a blur to me, but I had somehow managed to hold back, that much is clear. After all, I wasn't in his mind, his heart, or any of his organs. My blood hadn't consumed all of his blood, just some. I was, however, faced with a different issue, one that I had been avoiding ever since waking, the hunger, it was there, and just as I feared it was growing.

Focus. Calm. Stillness.

I forced myself to look away from the solid warmth of Stonehand's form, to focus on the scenery: ancient trees with tall bare trunks solemnly watching overhead, Gladeharts and their single horns raised in attention, and the blur of birds darting about in chase. Stonehand's men were bantering amongst themselves, their laughter rough and carried on the wind. They were crude, yes, but I could see their faces, their smiles, their eyes. They were just… men. Living. Breathing. Full of that vibrant essence. If I took control of Stonehand, I could turn him on them. He could split them open, and their essence would be…

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No.I squeezed my eyes and inhaled. I'm not a monster.

Focus!

But if I lost control… If the hunger overwhelmed me… I needed a way out, a final, desperate measure. My eyes dropped to the massive, wickedly notched axe strapped to Stonehand's saddle. The dark metal seemed to drink the light. That would be my end.

A low chuckle rumbled from the broad chest behind me, vibrating through the armor into my back. "You like my axe, girl?" Stonehand's voice was rough, laced with a knowing sort of amusement.

I flinched, startled. My head snapped up, and I must have looked terrified, because his grin, visible even under his grizzled beard, widened.

My throat felt tight. I needed to say something, anything to deflect from the hunger coiling inside me.

"It's... very large, Lord Stonehand," I managed, the words sounding pathetic. Totally the most wrong thing to say!

"Large?" He laughed again, a booming sound that echoed the earlier thunder of his voice in the courtyard. "Aye, she's large. And thirsty. Name's Grief-Giver." He patted the axe head fondly, the gesture almost tender. "Not for show, this one."

This thing had hurt Astrid! I focused on the two runes embedded in its head. "Is it... is it of Deepwood make?" I asked, seizing the conversational thread, hoping it would lead us further away from my internal abyss.

Stonehand let out another short, barking laugh, the sound less booming this time, more like stones grinding together. "Deepwood?" He snorted, the sound disdainful. "Them twig-snapping leaf-eaters wish they could craft steel like this. Elves make trinkets, girl. Pretty, sharp, yes. But this..." He patted Grief-Giver again, a fierce pride in his golden eyes. "This is Ironfell work. Forged from black mithril by the oldest clans of our mountain halls. Dwarven hands made this."

Dwarves? The word echoed in my mind, a concept familiar from Earth-bound fantasy novels, but hazy and distant in my Aetherian memory. I knew the name, of course. Dwarves were… miners? Smiths? They kept to their mountains, mostly. But they didn't come to the markets or had any performances. No one ever took me to a smithy before.

"This axe," Stonehand continued, his voice taking on a rough, almost reverent tone, "has tasted the blood of kings and demons alike. Few can match its make, and fewer still can truly wield it." He paused, then added with a gruff sort of pride that seemed to puff out his already broad chest, "Only those of us with mountain blood, dwarven blood, the true sons of Ironfell, can command a weapon of such… power."

"You… are a dwarf?" My jaw felt unhinged. He was towering over me, the size of a mountain.

"Half-dwarven," he grumbled as if it was a bad thing. "My mother was some dainty fairy from some house in the flats. She'd still give Pa a whipping when I was young though." The rumble of his laugh shook the horse. The haze of nostalgia clouded his eyes.

I tried to search my memories of Aetheria, and nowhere could I recall dwarves being described as short. My earth bias must be leaking through. But why are they called dwarves then?!

My gaze drifted back to the axe, to the two runes seated in crystals – the crossed arms of the berserker in flaming red, and the sunburst of the evoker in airy yellow. "The Soul Seeds, are they Dwarven made as well?"

A shadow crossed Stonehand's face. The boisterous pride from his reminiscence dimmed, replaced by a familiar, glum set to his jaw. He spat onto the dusty track beside his horse's hooves. "Hmph. Those." He scowled. "No, those are from the elves. No one knows what pacts they made to get them."

"Could they have just… taken it from people?" I looked over to his neck where a metal gorget rests.

Stonehand raised a bushy eyebrow. "You really know nothing, girl? A soul seed rots when the soul leaves. They don't stick around."

"Oh…" None of the heroic tales I heard focused much on deaths. Had Anya just skipped over those parts? Were my books redacted?

I focused in on his gorget. It was unornated, simple, and black. It covered his soul seed fully. Glancing about, I noticed that most of the other riders have some kind of cover over their necks as well. "Lord Stonehand, do you and your men have your Soul Seeds hidden for a reason?"

Stonehand's eyebrows knitted together. He squinted at me for a few clops and then bellowed with laughter. "You think we are going to prance around with our runes out in the open like you royals? No Princess, we fight something far more devious than any demon, men." He stroked the rings on his beard. "For that, you need to hold your cards close."

I blinked, it sounded like some saying from The Art of War. A fatalistic curiosity stirred inside of me, pushing back against the surging, roiling hunger within. "Can I see your rune? I heard you have a Champion-level rune."

He gave a dismissive grunt, though I thought I saw a flicker of something – not quite pleasure, perhaps just acknowledgment – in his golden eyes. "Heard? You hear that, boys? I'm renowned!" A few cheers rose behind us. His lips twisted into a smile, and he lifted the gorget. "Sure, Princess, have at it."

Underneath the black metal was facets of his soul crystal, bright green shone over its facets. Inside was a small tablet, bone-white in color, and grainy in texture, like bone as well. On that tablet was the carved symbol of a helmet. From a distance, these symbols looked like they were just lines, outlines of shapes, like word icons; but up close, it was a carving. There was a shape to them: the helmet was curved in relief, in its slits there were eyes, and between the chin guards, bared teeth. "A Juggernaut rune," I breathed.

"Oh, so you do know something, girl."

"Only what I heard in tales. The one who stood alone against a thousand spears. I heard it in a ballad of some form sung by a visiting bard."

Stonehand squinted one eye. "Just from that song?"

"Rune of a great helm, an indomitable build, menacing eyes. And… a Champion." I reached up and placed my hand upon the smooth faceted surface. It was a cold stone on the outside, but within I sensed a web of blood vessels leading up to it. Was it drawing in blood? For a moment, all thoughts of everything around me, of him, fell away; I wanted to see how this all works. "Can you use one of your abilities?"

Stonehand's chest rumbled, a deep, guttural sound, but he offered no immediate reply. The warhorse beneath us maintained its steady pace – clop, clop, clop.

Then, everything within him flared to life; blood rushed in a flood, hard and furious, through the web pathways to the soul crystal. The point where those paths converged with the bottom point of the crystal lit up, a flash of fierce vibrant energy, tinged green. It was drawing blood essence, and converting it to… magic?

Fortification!

The word blared out in my mind. And I sensed light pouring out of the crystal, spreading outwards and into the flesh. Stonehand's fist changed in texture, his skin hardening into granite like stone. That word echoed: 'Fortification.'

Stonehand's body tensed against me as his skin returned to normal. There was a wary glint in his eyes. "You know my skill?" His voice was low, with an edge to it.

"I…" I couldn't find my words. He hadn't said the word out loud. No, I had heard it echoing, through my blood flowing through his soul crystal.

We rode in silence after that.

Focus. Calm. Stillness.

I kept repeating the mantra as the hunger gnawed away the edges of my mind. Cold sweat dripped down my back. I felt light-headed, delirious.

"You alright girl? Looks like a vein about to pop in your head." The rough voice grumbled from behind me.

I'm trying… to keep you and your men alive! I closed my eyes and fought for a sliver of refuge against the hunger's relentless pull. The pulse of his blood, the beat of his heart, was far too close. "Lord Stonehand," my voice was a thin tremor against the rhythmic creak of leather and the thud of hooves, "why help Cassian? He's not Ironfell."

A rough chuckle vibrated against my back. "Help him? Ironfell serves its own." Stonehand twisted, his golden eyes glinting. "But that whelp… he's got a bit of the mountain in him. My doing."

He settled back. "You see, years back, Quintus and I had to settle an argument with fosterage. So my Tamas went south to their books and tactics." A dismissive snort. "Cassian, though? He learned the Way of Iron. I ran him ragged on the Fallen Peak, had him breathe caldera fumes 'til he nearly broke. Forged him." The pride in his tone was unmistakable. "Made him HARD." He gave my side a rough, unexpected nudge with his elbow. I bit back a gasp, the contact nearly jarring loose my desperate control. "He's strong now, eh? You noticed that body of his, didn't you? It's built for war and more..."

Then his gaze, sharp as chipped flint, landed on me. I stared ahead, jaw clenched. A dry, feverish heat radiated from my skin despite the cool morning air, while the void within churned with ice. Every muscle in my body was strung taut. He was silent for a beat, watching.

"Aye," he rumbled, a new note in his voice. His yellow eyes narrowed. "I see now why he takes to you."

I couldn't speak. The hunger was a vise, crushing any words.

Stonehand leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. "Your eyes, girl. They burn."