It smelled of dried lavender and rosemary from the bundles hanging from the rafters, undercut by the sweet, waxy residue of burnt candles and the earthy steam from a hissing kettle on the iron grate.

Shelves groaned under the weight of glass jars filled with swirling potions, ancient tomes with cracked spines, and a few unlit lanterns that caught the light like sleepy eyes.

It was orderly in that meticulous way of hers—everything in its place—but lived-in, with a half-finished embroidery hoop on a side table, a crumpled blanket on the settee betraying a restless evening alone.

This was Silvia's sanctuary, built from years of caution after whatever ghosts haunted her past, and being here uninvited made Lor feel like an intruder in more ways than one.

"Sit," she murmured, her voice a soothing balm as she brushed a scatter of parchment notes off the worn armchair by the fire—herbal recipes, from the look of them, smudged with ink.

She smoothed her robe down over her thighs, tying the sash a bit tighter at her waist, the motion drawing his eye to the subtle curve of her body before she sat opposite him on a cushioned stool.

Crossing her legs neatly, she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, trying to reclaim some dignity in the disheveled hour.

But there was a tremor in her fingers, a vulnerability that made her seem less like a woman unraveling at the edges.

Her gaze flicked up to meet his, hesitant yet probing, curiosity warring with that ever-present guilt.

"Why didn't you come to the academy today? Half the class was whispering about it."

Lor leaned back into the chair, the cushions sighing under his weight, and ran a hand through his tousled hair, avoiding her eyes for a moment.

The fire's heat seeped into his bones, easing the ache from the day of carrying logs "Didn't feel like it. After last night... everything felt off. Like I was dragging chains."

"That's not like you," she said gently, leaning forward slightly, her robe gaping just a fraction at the neckline to reveal the pale hollow of her throat, beaded with a hint of sweat.

Her voice searched his face.

"Tomorrow's the academics test. Will you come?"

He hesitated, the weight of her concern pressing on him like a warm hand.

A reluctant nod escaped him. "Yeah… I'll be there."

A tiny, reluctant smile tugged at her lips, breaking the tension like a crack in ice—comedy in her eyes, even now.

But she accepted it with a nod, folding her hands in her lap, knuckles whitening slightly.

"All right. That's something, at least. Now, what do you need me to do exactly? Spell it out—I don't want to fumble this."

"I told you," he said quietly, his voice dropping as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

The proximity made the air between them thicken.

"Break the bond. Whatever link Kiara still has on me—it's like she's in my head, pulling strings. I want it gone. Just do it quickly—I need to get home and sleep off this headache."

Her mouth tightened into a thin line, that shadow of guilt deepening, creasing her brow as memories of her own role in this mess—perhaps advising Kiara, or overlooking the signs—flashed unspoken.

"I understand. More than you know." She stood with a rustle of fabric, moving a small wooden table aside with a soft scrape, positioning herself directly in front of him.

Her chemise brushed against his knees as she knelt slightly, close enough that he could smell the wine on her breath, faint and berry-sweet. "Give me your hands."

Lor eyed her warily, his pulse quickening at the intimacy of it—the way her robe slipped a bit off one shoulder, exposing the strap of her chemise and the smooth skin beneath.

With a sigh that carried the weight of his exhaustion, he placed his hands in hers.

Her skin was warm.

She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath that lifted her chest noticeably.

A soft pink glow bloomed from her skin, starting at her wrists and pulsing gently between their joined hands like a heartbeat made visible.

It wasn't flashy—just a low, intimate radiance that hummed in the air, warming his palms and sending tingles up his arms.

The scent of ozone mixed with her herbal aura, and Lor felt the faint tug of her magic probing him, like gentle fingers sifting through his soul.

His shoulders stiffened instinctively, the bond resisting with a sharp ache in his chest. The glow flickered, dimming like a candle in the wind.

Silvia's eyes fluttered open, frowning softly, her grip tightening just a bit.

"You're shielding yourself. Hard. I can feel the walls—it's like trying to whisper through a fortress door."

Lor's brow furrowed, a smirk tugging at his lips despite the moment, adding a touch of their usual banter. "Of course I am. I don't understand your shady witch magic."

"I can't reach the bond if your defenses are that high," she said quietly, a hint of frustration coloring her voice, but her thumbs brushed soothing circles on the backs of his hands—unintentional, perhaps, but it sent an unexpected spark through him, warm and electric.

"You'll have to lower them."

He looked at her suspiciously, but the sincerity in her pleading eyes chipped away at his caution.

"You're not going to try anything strange, are you?"

She shook her head quickly, a blush creeping up her neck, matching the pink of her magic, her voice softening with guilt.

"I wouldn't dare, Lor. Not after... everything. I just want to help. To make this right."

For a moment, he said nothing, the fire popping softly in the hearth, casting golden highlights on her loose hair.

Then, with a gruff sigh, he relaxed his grip, letting the tension drain from his arms like sand through fingers.

His shields lowered, vulnerability washing over him.

"Fine. Try again. But if I find something off, I won't show you any mercy."

Silvia nodded once.

She closed her eyes again, focusing deeper, her breath syncing with his in the quiet.

The glow returned, stronger now, seeping from her palms and curling around their joined hands like faint, rosy mist that carried a subtle warmth, almost caressing.

Lor felt it thread through him, spreading from his fingertips up his arms to his chest, unlocking something heavy and invisible.

It wasn't painful—just strangely intimate, like her essence brushing against his, stirring a low heat in his core that blurred the line between magic and desire.

His gaze drifted to the way her lips parted slightly in concentration, the robe slipping further, revealing more of her cleavage, soft and inviting in the firelight.

For a brief instant, the light enveloped them both in a cocoon of pink shimmer, deepening to a rose hue that pulsed with shared energy, dramatic and charged.

Then it ebbed away, fading like a dying ember, leaving the room dim and the air humming with residual magic.

Silvia opened her eyes, the fatigue etching faint lines around them, her chest heaving slightly from the effort.

But she managed a small, weary smile, her hands lingering in his a second longer than necessary.

"It's done," she said quietly, her voice breathy. "The thread's cut clean."

Lor blinked, flexing his fingers as he pulled back gently.

The tug was gone—no drain siphoning his lust energy.

Just blessed stillness, like a weight lifted from his soul.

He exhaled, surprise mingling with relief, a grin cracking his face. "Feels... different. Lighter. Like I could actually sleep without having wet dreams"

Silvia nodded. "It should. The bond won't pull on you anymore." Her voice dropped to a softer register. "I'm sorry it took this long."

Lor pushed back his chair, the legs scraping against the worn wooden floor with a low groan that echoed in the quiet room.

The sound felt louder than it should have, like it was intruding on the fragile intimacy of the moment.

He stood, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering warmth of Silvia's magic.

"It's fine," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind, as he adjusted his shirt.

Silvia's gaze followed him, her eyes catching the firelight like polished jade, soft but searching, as if trying to read the thoughts he kept locked behind that exterior.

Her fingers twitched in her lap, still faintly warm from their contact, and she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the motion betraying a flicker of nerves.

Before he could reach the door, her voice cut through the quiet, soft but deliberate, stopping him mid-step.

"Lor," she said, almost a whisper, "what do you think about Kiara now?"

He froze, one hand gripping the doorframe, the rough wood biting into his palm.

His shoulders tensed, the question landing like a spark on dry tinder.

"What do I think?" he echoed, not turning around, his voice low and edged with something raw, like a bruise pressed too hard.

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