THE CRIMSON THREAD

Kaelen made it exactly three corridors before he had to stop and lean against a wall.

His hands were shaking. Not the controlled tremor of physical exertion — genuine, uncontrollable shaking that started in his chest and radiated outward. He pressed his palms against the cool stone and breathed, trying to find the meditation pattern that had been his refuge for fifteen years.

Four counts in. Hold for seven. Out for eight.

It didn't help. Because when he closed his eyes, he didn't find silence. He found *her*. Lyra Vane, the assassin who now lived inside his emotional space like she'd always been there. He could feel her confusion, her suspicion, the constant low hum of her anger. And beneath it, buried deep, a loneliness that matched his own.

He pushed off the wall and forced himself to walk normally. Palace corridors had eyes — servants, guards, courtiers with nothing better to do than observe and report. The Thread Prince did not lean against walls looking shaken.

In his chambers, he finally let the mask slip. He sat at his desk, poured water with hands that still trembled, and tried to think.

Crimson Threads. Soul bonds. He'd dismissed them as mythology, stories told to justify political marriages in the old days. "Our union is foretold by the Threads themselves!" Convenient propaganda for a crown that needed alliances.

But he'd seen it. Felt it. When her blade touched his chest, something ancient had awakened. A cord of light, red as heart's blood, connecting his soul to hers. And now — he touched his chest, felt the warm pulse — it was still there. Invisible to the eye but undeniable to any sense that mattered.