Binding

“Who’s Nathan?”

The question hung in the air.

Nathan’s heart felt like it was in his throat. How much had she heard? How long had she been there?

Do I tell her? Do I tell them all? Can I trust them with this?

His gaze snapped to Ronan first. Jaw set, eyes like stone. No give. No mercy. The look said it clear: Say nothing.

Then to Nyx. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken—just watching with those sharp, hungry eyes. A scholar staring at a specimen she couldn’t resist. Not a warning this time, not a denial. Curiosity burned there, the kind that whispered: Secrets rot in the dark. Better to let them out.

Nathan’s throat worked. “I—”

Ronan’s voice cut low, meant only for him. “The fewer who know, the safer you’ll be.”

Nathan’s pulse thudded in his ears. Tamsin’s stare pinned him, sharp and unrelenting. Bren, Alia, and Sera would notice something was off soon enough. And if he kept stalling, Tamsin or Nyx might just spill it for him.

“Too many ears,” Ronan went on, slinging his shield into place, jaw still tight. “Secrets spread faster than fire in the dry.”

Tamsin’s eyes narrowed. “So he does have secrets.”

Ronan didn’t flinch. “There are always secrets.” He shifted back to Nathan. “Are you sure?”

Nathan licked his lips, breath catching. Every eye was on him, waiting, until he gave a tight nod.

Ronan’s shoulders sagged, reluctance written in every line of him. As he went, his voice dropped low. “I’ll fetch them here. If you want their trust, best speak it plain.”

He moved off toward the perimeter. A few quiet words carried to Sera, and soon she was striding down the corridor toward where Nathan, Nyx, and Tamsin waited, Alia and Bren falling into step behind her.

The circle closed in, torchlight stretching shadows across the stone as every face fixed on him.

Sera’s voice cut the silence first. “Well? What is it?”

Nathan tried to steady the shake in his chest. “My name is Nathan Kim.”

Wow, that could have come out better.

The women blinked, exchanging quick looks.

Tamsin’s brow quirked. “And…?”

Alia’s tone was flat. “Why should it matter what you call yourself?”

Sera’s eyes narrowed slightly, but her voice stayed calm. “Names don’t change who’s standing in front of us. If you had to use an alias, I’m sure it was with good reason.”

Right. Why would that mean anything to them? He swallowed, opened his mouth, but nothing came.

Nyx leaned forward, words spilling out before she could catch them. “He’s an otherworlder in Mason Draegor’s body! Isn’t it extraordinary?”

Every head snapped her way.

Nathan gaped. “Nyx—what the hell?! You can’t just—say it like that!” His stomach twisted. Now? You choose now to be bubbly and extroverted?

Alia’s brows knit. “Otherworlder…?” Her tone wasn’t disbelief so much as curiosity.

Sera’s gaze fixed on Nathan. “Otherworlder. Draegor. Put those together and you’d better start explaining.”

“I swear!” Nathan threw his hands up. “I’m Nathan. Just Nathan.”

They didn’t answer at once. Torchlight flickered, shadows stretching the silence thin. Alia’s head tilted slightly, weighing him like a puzzle. Bren’s arms folded tighter across her chest, her face carved into stone. Tamsin’s grin was sharp but not unfriendly.

She spoke first. “Think about it. If he really were Draegor, we’d already be bleeding. Instead we’ve got a rookie who trips over his own words, teaches us swears, and only just figured out he can spark magic. Isn’t Draegor supposed to be some great and terrible mage?”

For a heartbeat, Nathan almost let himself relax.

Then Bren’s voice dropped, flat as a hammer blow. “Or maybe he’s mad. Either way, I’ll put him down quick if he’s a threat.”

Nathan snapped upright. “What? You’ve been with me for over a week! If I was up to something, wouldn’t I have done it already?”

Bren only shrugged. “Mad’s not patient. Doesn’t need a reason."

Tamsin’s grin thinned. “Every whisper of Draegor ends in blood and corpses. Deceit and treachery.”

Girl, I thought you were on my side! Nathan thought, heat creeping up his neck.

Sera’s gaze flicked to Nyx, sharp. “You’re certain? He isn’t Mason Draegor?”

Nyx’s answer came quick, almost breathless. “I can’t prove it yet—but nothing about him matches the man I’ve heard about. Draegor is feared, calculating. This one… stumbles, jokes, blurts truth like it burns him. If he’s lying, it’s the stupidest lie I’ve ever heard—and what would he even gain from it? Unless, of course…” Her eyes glinted. “…he’s exactly what he says he is.”

Nathan stared at her. I was almost grateful until you got creepy again.

Sera held Nyx’s eyes for a long moment, then exhaled slow. “Fine. We’ll accept this—for now. But our guard stays up.”

A ripple moved through the group—small nods, curt affirmatives. Even Tamsin didn’t argue, though her foot jiggled restlessly. Bren only grunted, which passed for agreement. Nyx, though, seemed half elsewhere, staring at Nathan like she was already charting diagrams no one else could see.

Sera leaned forward, voice low and hard. “Secrets like this get people killed. And if the Guild learns? They’ll lock you away, strip you down to questions and tests. And if answers don’t come easy, they’ll carve until they do.”

Nathan shuddered, stomach twisting. Carve? Like a specimen? Vivisection? The blood drained from his face before he could stop it.

Nyx blurted out, unable to hold it in. “Or they’ll preserve you—an anomaly, living proof of what’s only ever been footnoted in Collegium texts. It’s said to have happened once or twice, centuries ago, but never in our lifetime. No precedent in this age. No framework. Until you.”

Nathan’s words came quiet and plain. “I just want to go home. I want my body back.”

For a beat no one moved. Then Alia’s gaze softened, just a fraction; Bren’s arms uncrossed; even Tamsin’s grin curved into something wry, more thoughtful than mocking. Nathan felt their eyes differently now—not just measuring him, but listening. For once, they weren’t hearing a slip of strange words or jokes that fell flat.

They were hearing him.

Three of the mercs lay bundled in cloaks, breath ragged in uneasy sleep. Alia had tended their wounds until exhaustion dulled them, one of her vials burning steady in a ring of stones, the green flame hissing faint light. Two able-bodied mercenaries kept watch at the cavern’s edge, their silhouettes shifting against the dark.

Within the circle of that strange fire, only Nathan, Nyx, Ronan, and Alia remained awake. Sera lingered on her bedroll nearby, eyes half-lidded but sharp, listening more than speaking.

Nyx's voice slid in, pitched low. “Mana-born mages have limits. They’re born with a reservoir, fixed. Burn it too fast and the well runs dry. It only fills again with rest, food, time.”

Her gaze flicked to Ronan. “Was Draegor any different?”

Ronan’s mouth tightened. “The only mage I ever saw who could push past his reservoir—hold it longer, dig deeper. He wrapped mana over weapons, shields, arrows—extended himself through steel and stone.”

Nyx’s stylus twitched in her hand, though she didn’t raise it. “You said before—Draegor used himself as his own augment. No tool needed. If that’s true, then the body itself was the channel.” Her gaze sharpened on Ronan. “And you also mentioned something else. A ritual. What do you know of it?”

Nathan’s pulse jumped. He blurted before Ronan could answer. “From what I can tell, that’s when the body swap happened. My… soul, for lack of a better word, switched with his.”

Nyx’s eyes gleamed, voice tightening with urgency. “Don’t you see? Draegor wasn’t seeking stability—he wanted more. Unlimited power. Maybe the book promised a way to tear past the limits every mage is born with. If so, the ritual wasn’t about holding a little longer—it might have been about shattering that limit completely.” She leaned forward, almost breathless. “And yet—look at you. Another soul pulled into his place. Which means the result wasn’t what he intended. Either the ritual failed… or it worked in a way even Draegor couldn’t control.”

Her gaze burned into him. “What did you see when it happened?”

Nathan hesitated, then pressed both palms to his knees. “I’d just left a club. Was heading to a convenience store. Then I saw… a shimmer. Like heat off asphalt, only brighter. An opening in an alley. My—this face—” he gestured at himself, “—just floating there. Next thing I know, I’m yanked forward and—bam.” His throat worked. “I wake up in a dungeon. Blood everywhere. Dead bodies. Monsters.”

Nyx leaned forward, muttering almost to herself. “So a portal opened. Between worlds.” She tapped the edge of her stylus, voice rising. “But for what purpose?”

Nathan’s thoughts snagged on something. He snapped his fingers. “Oh! When I first got here, everyone kept asking me about a book.”

Nyx’s head jerked toward Ronan, hungry. “A book?”

His eyes stayed fixed on the green ring of flame, shadow hollowing his face. “We were sent to retrieve it. Boss had heard rumors of an old relic—leather-bound, covered in glyphs. Another party found it first, coming up from a dungeon. Mason took them on the road.” His jaw tightened. “He tortured them. When nothing came, he ordered us to burn the bodies.”

Nathan’s stomach lurched, bile rising sharp in his throat.

Ronan exhaled, slow and reluctant. “A month later he took it to the Guild Hall. Said it would lead to a weapon to end all wars. The Guildmaster forced him to take men from other parties—called it oversight. Mason didn’t argue. He needed sacrifices. Outsiders suited him better. He posted us at the dungeon’s mouth like sentries.”

Ronan’s jaw worked as he finally looked at Nathan. “Hours passed. We went in to find the Boss… and we found you.”

Alia stirred, voice steady. “So the ritual began with that book.”

Ronan gave a short, flat nod.

Nathan stared at him, throat tight, unable to reconcile the steady man who’d watched his back with the one confessing to executions. It doesn’t sound like the Ronan I know. The thought burned in his chest, but his voice came out ragged. “You executed them. Burned them?” The words were small, disbelieving.

Ronan didn’t flinch. “I carried out the orders. Same as always.”

Nyx cut in, abrupt and hungry. “Nathan—does your world have magic?”

He blinked, thrown. “No. Not like this. Stories. Movies. Tricks. Nothing real.”

Nyx’s head snapped toward him. “Then I should explain. Ronan—and all of Draegor’s men—were under some kind of magic. A binding, possibly more extensive.”

Nathan frowned. “Binding?”

Her eyes flashed. “Do you remember when I asked if you felt bound to Ronan?”

Nathan’s breath caught. “Yes.”

Nyx shook her head slightly. “But you don’t feel bound now.” Her gaze slid to Ronan, sharp as a blade. “Most bindings snapped with the web, but yours dug deeper—into the vessel itself, the body Nathan wears. Mason’s mind is gone, but the tether still clings because your weave was bound not only to his command, but to his body itself.”

Ronan’s voice stayed flat, each word landing heavy. “I saw men break bones trying to resist it. None of them ever overpowered it. All succumbed. I succumbed.”

Alia’s hands stilled. Her expression didn’t change.

Nyx’s gaze sharpened. “Exactly. Obedience twisted into instinct. Pain until command became reflex.”

The silence stretched, heavy as iron. Nathan cleared his throat. “You mentioned withdrawal symptoms. That tether. Was that because of all this?”

Ronan’s silence was confirmation enough.

Nyx pressed on. “And it didn’t end there, did it?”

Ronan’s jaw flexed. “No. Then came the web. He laid it into the manor itself—threads worked into stone and air. It pressed down on thought, dulled it, until obedience was all that remained. You didn’t think about leaving. You didn’t even think about shutting it off.”

His voice roughened. “But you weren’t blind inside it. I knew what was happening. Every order, every scream—I heard it, saw it, understood it. But there was no resistance. No foothold to push back. I was aware… but trapped. Like fog in the lungs. Like Boss was in there, filling every breath.”

The silence thickened, oppressive.

Nyx inhaled sharply. “Environmental compulsion. A Spellweb. Brilliant—and monstrous.”

Alia stirred where she crouched near the wounded, her voice precise. “That explains why you all stayed. Not one of you ever ran.”

Ronan’s hand flexed once against his knee. “The others broke free when the web shattered. I didn’t.” His eyes lifted at last, locking on Nathan. “It still pulls at me. Stronger since the wall shifted. Stronger since you started sparking.”

Nyx’s voice cut in, quick. “How long have you been with Draegor?”

Ronan hesitated. "Ten years, maybe more. I think he tampered with my memories. I don’t remember who I was before the manor—before he took over as Boss, nothing. He got blood from every man eventually—new recruits were beaten, and he took what spilled. But me? He made it… personal. A deeper weave. I think he wanted to see how far he could push.”

Nathan’s hands curled into fists. Heat surged up his throat, and the word came out before he could stop it. "Barbaric..."

Nyx’s gaze burned. “That explains it. The chain, the web, and the private weave—it’s why the compulsion clings to you even after the rest was broken.”

Nathan’s breath caught. For once, no joke came to his tongue. He studied the scarred man across the fire. Ronan. Was that even his real name?

“Whoever you really are,” Nathan said softly, “you are a kind and honorable person. You want me to stay in this body so you can save people. Turn the mercenaries into something better. Undo what Mason broke.”

For the first time, Ronan’s mouth eased—barely, a ghost of a smile.

Across the circle, Sera shifted on her bedroll, then pushed herself up without a word. She crossed to where Tamsin and Bren dozed and nudged them awake with a hand to each shoulder. Neither complained; both rose at once, gathering weapons before moving toward the cavern’s edge to relieve the sentries.

One by one the others eased down, the cavern dimming into silence broken only by the shuffling of the watch at the edge of the dark.

Nathan lay awake longer than he wanted, thoughts turning over like knives. Eventually exhaustion dragged him under.

When Nathan woke, Sera and Ronan were already talking about their next moves—asking Alia how long before they could move out.

“As patched and stable as I could get them,” Alia said, voice flat.

“Then we move now,” Sera replied.

Ronan hauled one of the injured mercs to his feet, steadying him until he found his balance. Nathan scrambled up to help another, slinging the man’s arm over his shoulder while Bren secured their packs. Bedrolls were rolled, gear cinched, weapons checked. In minutes the camp was nothing but damp impressions in the stone, their green fire stamped out.

They set off again, boots slapping the uneven floor. The wounded stumbled but kept pace under steady hands.

Alia broke the silence first, her tone cold and precise. “Rookie. What happens when we leave the dungeon—when motes no longer hang in the air?”

Nathan blinked at her. “Right, because I have a manual for this?”

Nyx’s expression sharpened, edged with sympathy. “Without motes, you’d bleed dry. Your soul doesn’t carry a native reserve. Mason’s body can use mana, but you can’t make.”

Nathan stared at her, then at his hands, then at the dark beyond the tunnel. “Cool. Love that for me.” His laugh came out thin. “So I’m a phone with no battery, living off wall outlets.” He rubbed at his temples. “And outside there are no outlets.”

The pause pressed in, heavy as the stone around them. Panic nibbled at his ribs. There has to be a workaround. People do workarounds. That’s civilization.

Nathan shoved through his pack, clattering mess tin and rope until his fingers closed on his dented flask. He held it up like a relic.
“Okay, dumb idea—but what if I… bottle them? The motes. Like meal prep. But for magic.”

Sera stopped mid-step. “You cannot be serious.”

Alia’s brow pinched, but after a long pause she said, “…Not entirely absurd.”

Nathan’s face lit. Then the flask slipped from his hands, bounced off his knee, and he barely caught it against his chest with a wheeze.
“See? Totally under control.”

Sera pinched the bridge of her nose. “You are a danger.”

“Only to myself,” Nathan said, then added quickly, “Statistically.”

Nyx’s eyes gleamed, voice quickening. “Containment without a calibrated matrix would be unstable, but the metal could hold if you sealed it fast enough. Don’t pop it near your skin unless you want to drink them instead of saving them.”

Nathan, already hyped on his own bad idea, cracked the flask an inch and tried to will the nearest mote inside. He pushed—hard—imagining a funnel, a lid, anything. The mote drifted lazily toward the opening… then bobbed straight out the other side and winked away.

“Uh.” He rattled the flask like it might fix the laws of magic. “That’s… not ideal.”

Nyx sighed through her teeth, half exasperated, half fascinated. “Because you aren’t just opening a container. You’d need to extend a mana field around it—shape it like a net. Without that, it will never hold.”

Nathan clicked the lid shut and hugged the flask to his chest like a teddy bear. Okay. Table this one. Later.

Bren muttered from behind, “If you name it, the gods will hear.”

“Too late,” Nathan whispered. “You’re Stanley now.”

Nyx chuckled at the naming, then tilted her head, thoughtful. “In theory it might work. But no one’s ever done it. No precedent. I don’t even know if it’s possible.”

A weird little thrill tightened in Nathan’s gut—half dread, half hope. He grinned weakly. “Guess that makes me an innovator.”

Nyx didn’t smile. Her gaze stayed sharp. “If it’s possible at all—you’re the only one who could manage it.”

The tunnel widened, echo thinning into muffled hush as stone gave way to waterlogged muck. Cold lapped at their boots, ankle-deep in places, broken by hummocks of black mud. Fungus glowed bruise-purple from the stalactites, mist curling low around their knees.

Nathan wrinkled his nose. “Welcome to the Fetid Spa: free leeches, complimentary respiratory infection.”

Bren stopped dead. “Swamp rot. Should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Nathan spun on her. “You knew this was an option?”

Tamsin gave a short, humorless laugh. “Desert first, now swamp. Rotten luck.”

“Dungeon brought us,” Bren said, testing the muck with her spear. “I only complain about it.”

“Congratulations, rookie.” Tamsin flicked him a glance, razor-thin and tired but amused. “You found worse.”

They pressed deeper in staggered file, always angling for the driest hummocks. Of the five mercs, two stayed armed at the edges while Ronan, Nathan, and Bren shouldered the wounded between them. Alia kept to the center with her satchel, Nyx hovered close to Nathan, and Sera and Tamsin ranged ahead—steel bare, the formation’s teeth.

“Eyes up,” Sera warned.

The warning came just in time. Water rippled—no step caused it. Mist bowed inward, as if something massive had exhaled beneath it.

Then the first shape rose. Man-shaped at a glance, but wrong. Its face was a smear, hollows for eyes, a mouth tearing wide until teeth glinted in a perfect ring. Black mud sluiced from its shoulders. Its knee bent the wrong way before jerking back, like a puppeteer tugging the wrong string.

Another rose beside it. Then another. All around, the swamp heaved and split. For a breath there was only the wet slap of water, the obscene suck of mud. Then their mouths opened wider—too wide.

“Are they laughing?” Nathan asked incredulously.

“Sounds like it!” Tamsin barked, flashing a grin that didn’t reach her eyes. Her knives were already in hand. “And if they are, we’ll give them something to choke on.”

Something that sounded like laughter swelled. High and bright at first, like children somewhere out of sight, then twisting, layered, until it curdled into something wrong.

“Contact!” Sera snapped. “Shields!”

Bren planted her spear. Tamsin slipped forward, low and lean.

Nathan’s stomach lurched as one of the things fell on a wounded merc, dragging him under. The sound that followed would never leave him. He ripped his sword free with slick fingers, Ronan’s words hammering in his head: Wrap it around steel. Stop wasting yourself.

He sucked in a breath and reached. Two motes peeled loose from the haze—sluggish, reluctant—and drifted toward him. They sank through his fingertips, sparking cold as they threaded his ribs and spread through his chest in a shiver that set his teeth on edge. His breath hitched.

Okay. Funnel it. Around the steel.

He shoved the borrowed light down his arm, fingers clamping on the hilt. It stuttered, resisted—then bled into the blade. Blue-white light flared, ragged and uneven, guttering like a bad bulb. Not a clean wrap. More like trying to net smoke.

One of the creatures lunged. Nathan swung on instinct—the light hissed through its body, collapsing it into slurry. For half a breath he thought he’d done it. Then the sludge twitched, pulling itself back together.

“Stay dead,” Nathan hissed at the muck.

The laughter pressed closer, bubbling wet from the creatures’ throats until it felt too near, too many.

The light in his blade dimmed.

A shiver ran down his spine. “…That’s ominous.”