"I understand freedom differently than most people. I mean everyone does, no?" he said.
The words came out flat, almost detached, as if he were stating something obvious about the weather.
"I grew up in the Outskirts." He said it simply, the way one might mention a scar that had stopped bleeding long ago. "You probably know what that means. It means the rules that exist for everyone else… they don't really apply there. The protections. The assumptions. The idea that people are owed anything at all."
He looked at his hands, then away again, toward the porthole.
"In the Outskirts, what you have is what you can hold onto. What you are is what you can defend. The only thing that was ever truly mine was myself. My choices. My direction." He exhaled slowly through his nose. "That's not nothing. When everything else can be taken away at any moment, knowing that your own will still belongs to you… that's not a small thing. That's—"
He stopped abruptly, jaw tightening.
Nephis felt the unfinished sentence settle heavily in her chest.
She could see it now the quiet, bone-deep exhaustion behind his words. The way freedom wasn't some grand, beautiful concept for him, but something small, ugly, and fiercely guarded. Something he had bled for, literally and figuratively. Something he had constructed his entire identity around. And here he was, offering her this piece of himself, this raw definition of what freedom meant to a boy who had grown up with nothing guaranteed.
Her throat tightened. She should have felt joy, but instead the shame from moments ago twisted deeper, mixing with a sharp and aching tenderness. Because she understood, perhaps for the first time, just how much it cost him to speak about this. How much trust it required to admit that his idea of freedom was so fragile, so bitterly earned, so personal.
And yet he was still here. Still trying.
She hated how much she wanted to reach across the space between them and tell him he didn't have to explain anything. But she stayed silent, letting the weight of his unfinished thought press against her ribs.
"You could offer me the [Shadow Bond] with someone kind," he said, voice low and even. "Someone who swore on their life they'd never use it. And I'd still—" His jaw tightened visibly. "I couldn't accept it."
He looked at her directly now.
"You or others can explain it to me rationally. Tell me the chain is slack. That no one's really pulling it. That freedom is just a myth, that no one is truly free in this world." He gave a small, bitter shrug. "I understand those arguments. I can follow the logic just fine. But it doesn't change what I feel when I think about it."
His eyes stayed on hers.
"In the end, it doesn't matter to me how loose the chains are, if someone else is still holding the other end."
"I know," she whispered.
So quietly she wasn't sure he had heard it or why she had even said it.
Did she truly understand, even now? Despite hearing every word of his painful plea, could she honestly claim she did?
The knowledge sat inside her like a stone. She had carried it for a long time now this quiet, brutal awareness of how deeply the very idea of the Bond revolted him. She had known it even while the real bond between them existed, pulsing silently in the background. She had tried, again and again, to convince herself that the gap could be bridged. That time, patience, and careful distance would be enough to make it bearable for him.
She no longer believed that.
The illusion had quietly crumbled under the weight of reality, and tonight she was simply admitting it to herself out loud.
Something settled in her chest cold and final, the specific weight of a hope that has been relinquished not in anger but in clarity. She was still part of the chain in his mind. No matter how gently she tried to hold that truth, it didn't soften.
And she hated how powerless it made her feel.
He watched her for a long moment. Something in his face softened not with relief, but with a deep, exhausted understanding. She meant it. Even if she hadn't fully understood him before, he could see that she was trying. She was listening. She was looking at him without armor, truly looking, and truly trying to cross the distance.
"There's something else." he said.
She waited.
"In this nightmare—" He stopped, then forced himself to continue. "You aren't one of the Plagues. I don't know if you've thought about what that means… in terms of what's possible."
He was quiet for a long moment, staring at a point just past her shoulder.
"You're already dead."
The words came out flat, but his face betrayed him. His expression was painfully even — too even — the kind of controlled stillness that cost everything. His jaw was locked, his eyes dark and hollow, as if simply saying it out loud was tearing something vital out of his chest. The lines around his mouth had gone tight with pain. He looked like a man forcing himself to swallow broken glass.
"I don't know how it happened, or how it ended," he continued, voice low and strained. "But I know what is possible. I know that you can't be corrupted. And I know what I'm capable of when I'm…" He shook his head once, sharply. "If she if you gave me an order at the wrong moment… or the right one… I know how I'd feel. I know what it would do to me."
His voice cracked, just barely.
"And how you would end up."
He finally looked at her directly, eyes raw.
"Saying it plainly… I may have already killed you."
Nephis felt the words hit her like a blade sliding between her ribs.
Dying at Sunny's hands.
The image came unbidden sharp, vivid, merciless. She could almost see it: his face twisted in grief and rage, his blade moving with that terrifying precision he possessed. And she… she wouldn't fight back. Not really. She would look at him, accept it, maybe even apologize with her last breath for everything she had unknowingly put him through. For the chains. For the voice. For being the reason he had to carry so much.
But worse than the image of her own death was the memory she had tried so hard to bury: the moment she had given him the order in the Crimson Spire. In that instant, even as his body obeyed against his will, something inside him had surged raw, instinctive, uncontrollable. A killing intent so pure and violent that, for a fraction of a second, he had wanted to end her. Not out of hatred. Not out of choice. But because the Bond had forced his will into a corner so tight that murder had become the only remaining freedom.
He couldn't control it. He couldn't direct it. And that loss of agency was exactly why he was telling her this now why it haunted him so deeply.
She imagined herself standing there, letting him do it. Letting the person she loved most in this world end her, because part of her believed she might deserve it. Because if her existence had caused him that much pain, then maybe…
She hated how easily she could picture herself accepting it.
And Sunny's face that carefully controlled mask of pain only made it worse.
Seeing him hurt this much just from saying the words felt like something being ripped out of her too.
"That's what the [Shadow Bond] does," he said. "Not in theory. In practice. To me, specifically. It's not something I can rationalize my way out of. It's not some worst-case scenario I decided to worry about. It's a truth about what I am… and what this does to me."
He looked at her steadily.
"And I think you deserve to hear it. Because I'm telling you I love you, and I think it matters that you know the whole thing. Not just the clean parts."
Nephis could not speak.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and complete.
"It felt horrible when I stopped being mine," he said simply. No drama. No flourish. Just the quiet weight of a fact carried far too long.
"Our fight in the Crimson Spire. The beginning or the end of it." He paused, then continued in that flat, worn-out tone of someone who had replayed a memory until it lost all its sharp edges. "When you gave me the order to leave you… I remember it very precisely. The feeling."
He breathed in slowly.
"Like a hook behind my sternum. Like being yanked sideways. Like someone reached in and rewrote the last word of my own sentence." His voice stayed low, almost detached. "My feet moved. My legs moved. I walked away. I knew with complete clarity that I didn't want to go. I didn't want to leave you alone. I wanted to stay. And yet my body…"
He spread his hands.
"Someone else's decision wearing my limbs."
The cabin was very quiet. Beneath them, the sea continued its slow, indifferent rhythm against the hull.
Nephis kept her eyes fixed on the floor.
She needed that small distance somewhere safe to look while the full weight of his words settled inside her.
She remembered giving that order in the Crimson Spire with perfect clarity. She had been so certain then. The logic had felt undeniable, the path forward painfully obvious. She had spoken the words convinced she was doing what had to be done, even though the choice had torn something deep within her.
She had not been able to look at his face in that moment. The expression he wore when the Bond took hold of him had broken something in her. The turmoil in her heart had been real, but the situation had not allowed her the luxury of examining it.
Even then, she had never wanted to use that hideous weapon. But the thought of Sunny dying when she had the power to protect him even at the cost of his hatred had been a price she was willing to pay.
She had not, however, allowed herself to imagine what it felt like from the inside of the body she had redirected.
What it would feel like if their roles were reversed.
She knew the answer, of course. She would still love him painfully, fiercely but if he were to rewrite her will, to take away her agency… the very idea made something cold and sharp twist inside her chest. She would not survive it. Not cleanly. Not without something being irreparably altered.
She had refused to dwell on that, then.
She could no longer afford that refusal.
"That's what [Slave] means," he said, his voice quiet but steady. "I know you understand the mechanics. I know you've decided how you're going to handle it. But when I think about the [Shadow Bond], I don't think about connection or balance or something that can be carefully managed. I think about that moment."
He paused, then continued with brutal honesty.
"One word from you whether it's careless, angry, thoughtless, or even meant kindly and I become a stranger to myself. Everything I want, everything I feel, everything I've decided… it all stops mattering. My own will becomes irrelevant."
His hands rested on his knees, fingers pressing down hard enough to whiten the knuckles.
"I cannot accept that. I don't have a version of myself that can simply accept that. If I ever found a real exit… I would take it. And I want you to know that too, because it's true, and I won't pretend otherwise."
He looked at her then.
His expression was stripped bare the most honest thing she had ever seen on a human face. All the usual layers of deflection, dry humor, and careful distance had been peeled away, leaving only exhaustion and raw sincerity. It clearly cost him to hold that gaze.
"I love you," he said. "I said it once and I'm saying it again. I'll say it as many times as you need. I love you, and I can't imagine any version of my life that would have been better without you in it. I would rather have these chains, and all they cost, than not have you at all. That is the truth, and I live by the truth."
He paused, breath steady but heavy.
"But the chains are vile. I can't pretend they're not there. I can't look at you and separate the two things, you, and what you hold over me. They exist in the same space, and I am not capable of choosing to see only one of them."
He pressed his palms flat against his knees, as if grounding himself.
"I am already yours," he said, voice low and raw. "More than I ever chose to be. More than I ever meant to be."
He let out a single, hollow laugh the kind that held no humor at all.
"And when I said I love you earlier… I gave you the last piece of me that wasn't already accounted for."
His expression had nothing left resembling armor. Just exhaustion and brutal honesty, and beneath them both, the stubborn shape of someone who had decided to stay anyway.
"So here I am," he continued. "Loyal. To the bone. Loyal enough that I ripped myself open and laid every ugly, aching part right in front of you… and you didn't even have to command it."
Nephis made a small, broken sound barely a breath, interrupted. It escaped before she could stop it.
He didn't stop.
"Tell me, Neph… is this what loyalty looks like to you? Is this the loyalty you talked about?" His voice was quiet, but every word cut clean. "Me sitting here loving you so hard it hurts to breathe, while knowing that one careless word from you could end everything? That the Spell would move faster than either of us could stop it?"
She remembered what she had once told him with all the arrogance and certainty of someone who thought she understood power.
Because I don't need anyone to follow me against their will. I don't need a magical collar to make people serve me. I don't need slaves. That is not enough for me, Sunny. Why should I settle for submission when I can have loyalty? People who will follow me, serve me, and obey me will do so because that is their most ardent desire. They will do so with a smile. If I ever want to make you mine, Sunny, you will become mine — not because you were forced to, but because you would want to. That... is also a fact.
The memory tasted like ash.
She had wanted him to follow her with a smile.
She had spoken those words as if loyalty were something that could be earned through sheer force of conviction as if the depth of what she felt for him would eventually dissolve his fears, as if her version of possession could somehow be different. Cleaner. Worthier. She had truly believed it. That she would never need to force anything, because she would be powerful enough to make him choose her freely. That they would argue and clash, but always while understanding each other. Always while choosing each other.
And yet here he was, laying himself bare in front of her, voice raw, eyes exhausted telling her he was already hers in every way that mattered, and that it was killing him.
The gap between them had not been caused by the Bond alone. She saw that now with a clarity that felt like standing in cold water. It had been widened by her own arrogance by those confident, careless words she had once thrown at him like they were harmless. She should have apologized back then. She should have seen sooner how deeply the very concept of any chain wounded him. Instead, she had let her pride dress itself up as philosophy. She had chosen comfort over truth, and called the choice patience.
Now those words had carved a chasm between them she didn't know how to close.
She looked at him at the raw honesty on his face, at the way his hands pressed against his knees as if trying to anchor himself and felt something inside her go very still.
I'm sorry, she thought. The words too heavy to speak yet.
I should have been better.
Sunny continued.
"I'm already yours. More than I ever intended. More than I wanted to admit out loud. Because the second I told you I loved you… I handed over the last part of me that wasn't chained."
His voice cracked once, sharp and painful before he forced it steady again.
"But you can't just smile softly and pretend the chain isn't there. You can speak gently. You can touch me carefully. You can mean every word… and I want to believe you do. Because I foolishly trust you. But it doesn't change what it is."
He took one slow step closer. Not aggressive. Just enough that she couldn't look somewhere easier.
"You're holding my life between two fingers. Every breath I take is borrowed from your restraint. And restraint… restraint is a fragile thing, even for you."
His dark eyes searched her face, tired and unrelenting.
"You promise me freedom with one breath. You swear you'll never say the word that would end me. But you still hold my kill-switch."
The silence that followed was crushing.
It carried every unfinished argument, every stolen moment of warmth poisoned by what lived underneath, every time he had looked at her and felt both love and terror simultaneously and not known which one to show her.
Nephis lowered her gaze.
She couldn't hold his eyes anymore. Not because she wanted to retreat but because the weight of it was so complete that looking away felt like the only honest thing left to do.
She had thought about this moment for a very long time.
Not as something she actively planned or rehearsed. More like a quiet, persistent shadow that followed her wherever she went rising uninvited in the middle of sleepless nights, during long watches, in the rare silences after battle. She had imagined confessing to him more times than she could count. In those private rehearsals, she had been calm and articulate. She had told him she loved him with clarity and grace. She had imagined kissing him. She had imagined sitting beside him without the constant weight of the Bond between them, without guilt measuring every word she said to him.
She had imagined telling him that he was the only one. That there had never been anyone else, not truly. That the very idea of anyone replacing him felt almost offensive to her not simply wrong, but impossible. It had to be him. It could only ever be him. She was certain of that with the same certainty she had for things she had tested and proved.
She had also imagined the worst versions of this conversation. The ones where he laid bare every scar she had given him. In those imagined scenarios, she had prepared careful answers, had tried to find the right words to reassure him, to prove she could be better.
But reality was nothing like those quiet rehearsals.
Now that the moment had arrived, all her prepared words had dissolved. What remained was raw, messy, and unbearably heavy.
She loved him.
She loved him the way she loved very few things, completely, without the possibility of revision. She wanted his quiet presence, his sharp mind, his rare smiles, the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't paying attention, everything. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to be allowed to reach for him without wondering if she was pulling on an invisible leash. She wanted a life where I love you didn't come with the immediate sting of guilt. She wanted him with a ferocity that had no clean language for itself something closer to need than want, something that had grown so gradually over so many years that she couldn't locate the moment it had started, only the moment she had finally admitted it was there.
And she had always known that loving him meant carrying this weight. She had hoped, foolishly, desperately, that if she was careful enough, patient enough, steady enough, the Bond would shrink until it was manageable. That her love would be louder than the voice in his head. That one day they could simply exist together without the constant shadow of what she held over him.
She had been wrong.
The truth was uglier and more specific than a grand confession of wrongness it was this: she was still capable of being the monster he had first seen at the Academy gates. Not always. Not inevitably. But capable. The possibility lived inside her, a mechanism she hadn't chosen and couldn't dismantle alone, and no amount of careful speech or restraint could make that possibility disappear from his awareness. He would always know it was there. He would always have to live inside that knowledge.
She didn't deserve the way he had torn himself open for her tonight.
And still — still — she refused to let go.
The thought of walking away from him was not simply painful. It was inconceivable in the way that abandoning something structural was inconceivable not a sacrifice but an amputation. She wanted him enough to keep fighting even when she was part of what needed to be fought. Enough to stay and carry the weight of her own failures rather than retreat into the false mercy of absence. She told herself she was staying for him, but she knew, with the honesty she owed herself, that she was also staying because she could not imagine the alternative. Because it was him. Because it had always been him, since before she had allowed herself to understand it.
And no amount of guilt, no amount of self-knowledge, no amount of painful clarity could change that single, stubborn fact.
She lifted her gaze.
He was looking at her tired, open, waiting with that quiet patience she had come to recognize as one of the most precious things about him. The patience of a person who has said the true thing and is willing to sit inside the silence until the other person finds their way to their own.
"I never wanted this," she said.