Episode 2 — The First Pull

The applause faded into the marble walls, leaving only the low hum of the still-glowing bond circle. Rowan’s wrists ached where the golden chains had burned their presence into his skin, a heat that felt more psychic than physical.

The Council’s closing remarks were a blur—phrases like “Historic pairing” and “Fortunate alliance” swam uselessly in his ears. What mattered was the weight at his side: Alder’s presence. Even standing still, the man’s aura pressed against him, an unyielding gravity.

When the hall emptied, two guards approached to escort Rowan to the standard Guide quarters.

They never reached him.

“Leave,” Alder said without looking at them. The tone wasn’t loud, but it cracked like a whip in the psychic field. The guards froze, then retreated without a word.

Rowan’s jaw tightened. “I was told I’d be assigned my own room—”

“You were told wrong,” Alder interrupted smoothly, turning toward the massive double doors at the rear of the hall. “You’re coming with me.”

The walk through the High Council’s corridors was a study in control. Alder didn’t touch him, yet Rowan could feel the invisible thread pulling him forward, an aftereffect of the bond. Every step made the sensation sharper—like the chain was learning his rhythm, syncing with his pulse.

They reached a private lift. Inside, Alder pressed a gloved finger against the panel, and the doors sealed with a hiss.

The silence was suffocating.

Rowan broke it. “You’re wasting your time. If you think a perfect match means I’ll obey you—”

Alder’s head tilted slightly, as if listening to something far away. Then Rowan felt it—a psychic tug, deep inside his mind. Not invasive, but undeniably intimate. Like a hand brushing against the inside of his thoughts.

The air seemed to thin. Rowan stumbled back a step, hitting the lift’s wall.

“What—are you—”

“Testing,” Alder murmured, stepping closer. “Your limits. Your tolerance. Your breaking point.”

Rowan forced his breath steady. “And if I don’t break?”

A faint smirk touched Alder’s mouth, a rare shift from his otherwise impassive face. “Then you might actually survive me.”

The lift stopped with a soft chime, and the doors opened into a vast private residence—dark polished floors, towering windows overlooking the city, and an entire wall of dimly glowing screens tracking Esper activity.

“This,” Alder said, stepping inside without looking back, “is where you’ll stay. Guides assigned to me do not roam freely.”

Rowan lingered in the doorway, refusing to step further. “You’ve had four Guides before me.”

“Three,” Alder corrected. “The fourth was a pretender. They didn’t last a week.”

Rowan’s pulse quickened, but his expression stayed flat. “And how long do you expect me to last?”

Alder turned then, eyes locking on his with a weight that made Rowan’s breath hitch. “Long enough,” he said softly, “for you to learn that running isn’t the same as escaping.”

The bond pulsed between them, a steady, insistent heartbeat. Rowan could feel his own power resonating faintly with Alder’s, as if the chain they’d forged in the hall had followed them here—alive, watching, waiting.

And in that moment, Rowan realized the truth: this wasn’t the start of a partnership.

It was the start of captivity.

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