(Nova POV)
The chamber beneath the safehouse smelled of damp stone and old herbs, the kind that cling to your clothes long after you leave. A single brazier burned low in the center, casting orange flickers across the rough-hewn walls. Mara had drawn the ritual circle herself—chalk and crushed obsidian, lines sharp as accusations. No candles. No incense. Just the two of us inside the ring, knees touching, palms pressed together.
Her hands were cool. Steady. Mine weren't.
"You sure about this?" she asked one last time. Her voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of someone who'd seen too many bonds go wrong.
"No," I admitted. "But we need to know what he's planning. What he's feeling. The bond's the only way in."
Mara nodded once. She closed her eyes. I followed.
