The Bond had not sparked in their kisses or touches, not even in the stolen warmth of their nights by the fire.

It bloomed only after they tore themselves apart.

Elira had run. She had forced herself to. Her heart had screamed to stay, wings trembling with the urge to fold around the knight and never let go. But she had seen the truth in glimpses — the frailty of mortal flesh, the inevitability of loss. To love a mortal was to carve her own ruin, and worse, to chain the knight to a flame that could only consume.

So she had fled into the forest. Branches had clawed at her skin as if to stop her, shadows whispering her cowardice. Her wings, once radiant, were muted beneath her cloak, burning with the ache of restraint. Each step away felt like tearing sinew from bone.

She told herself it was mercy. If she left, the knight would live. If she left, she could bury her fire and the bond would never be born.

But fate mocked her.

Days later, when the Bondfire finally surged through her chest, she felt it like a second heartbeat — wild, feral, inescapable. It reached across the miles and tethered itself to the mortal's soul, no matter the distance, no matter her will.

At first, she thought it was a phantom ache, her own longing twisting into pain. But then the truth struck: she felt the knight's weakness. The burning fevers, the shivering body, the shallow breaths — her flame echoing in fragile veins never meant to carry it.

The bond had not only formed; it had begun to kill.

Each gasp of the knight's breath clawed at Elira's chest like a blade. Her wings dimmed to hollow embers, her body shaking with the knowledge that it was her — her love, her selfish fire — poisoning the only woman who had ever seen her as more than a jewel of the Court.

So Elira chose.

If the Bond demanded ruin, it would take her.

The night she prepared to burn herself away, her wings stretched wide as if in farewell. Sparks fell from her feathers like dying stars. The fire swelled in her chest, begging for release, promising that with her end the knight would be free.

"You will live," Elira whispered into the darkness, tears searing her cheeks. "Let her live, even if I turn to ash."

But then suddenly, hands — warm, trembling, mortal hands — seized her wrists. The knight's presence, weak but unyielding, shattered her resolve.

Elira's heart broke at the sight. Fever clung to her skin, her body fragile as porcelain, yet she dared to stand against her.

"No—" Elira's voice cracked, wings thrashing in anguish. Sparks burst into the night as she pulled against the grip. "You don't understand. I will kill you if I stay. This bond... this curse—it's burning you alive!"

Her fire surged violently, and she shoved, desperate to break free, desperate to end herself before the knight could stop her. Her wings flared wide, lashing with embers like whips of light, their heat searing the air between them.

"Let me go!" she cried, struggling against the knight's grip, her voice raw with agony. "I would rather die than watch you suffer! I cannot—" Her words fractured into sobs, flame spilling from her lips as her body convulsed with the effort to fight against the bond, against her own heart.

But the knight held on.

No matter how Elira thrashed, no matter how the fire burned, those mortal hands refused to release her.

And for the first time in her long, endless life, Elira felt powerless. Wings trembling, tears carving glowing lines down her cheeks, she fell to her knees, broken by the weight of love and ruin entwined.

"Why won't you let me save you?" she whispered into the night, voice collapsing into ash.