Work Text:
*****
The kingdom of Eldoria had known war for as long as its oldest towers still stood. Stone walls bore scars of sieges past, and the banners that fluttered from them told stories of battles won and lost. In the morning the western pass fell quiet at last, mist curled low across the valley, carrying the scent of iron and ash.
Sir Mike of Hawkins returned from the battlefield with the dawn.
He rode slumped in his saddle, one hand gripping the reins, the other pressed hard against his side. His silver-and-blue armor was dented and stained, the holy sigils of his paladin order dulled by blood and dirt. He should not have still been conscious, everyone knew that. The wound he carried was no ordinary blade cut, but one left by a corrupted knight wielding forbidden magic.
Mike had charged anyway.
He always did.
The castle gates groaned open, and the guards rushed forward, alarm flashing across their faces.
“Get him down!” one shouted. “He’s bleeding through the plate!”
Mike managed a crooked smile as hands caught him. “Hey,” he muttered, voice rough but teasing. “We won, right?”
“You nearly died,” the steward snapped, though relief softened his tone. “Again.”
Mike laughed weakly, then winced. The world tilted, colours blurring.
“The healers can’t touch this wound,” someone said urgently. “The magic’s wrong. We need—”
“A mage,” the steward finished grimly.
Mike barely registered the word before darkness closed in.
*****
El had always known the tower would become her home.
From the moment her magic first surfaced, candles igniting at a glance, doors creaking open without touch, the court mages had watched her carefully. She was young, yes, but power did not wait for age, and hers ran deep and strange. Some whispered that it was too old, too instinctive, as if it remembered things the world had forgotten.
The tower was quiet when they brought Mike in, its stone walls humming faintly with spellwork laid centuries before. El turned as the door opened, dark hair braided simply down her back, brown eyes sharpening as she took in the bloodied paladin half-carried by two guards.
She felt the magic immediately.
It crawled along her senses, wrong and jagged, clinging to the wound like a parasite.
“You should not have let it fester,” she said, stepping forward.
Mike forced his eyes open at the sound of her voice. For a moment, all he saw was light, soft and steady, like dawn through stained glass.
“Didn’t really have a choice,” he murmured. “The guy didn’t wait politely for me to dodge.”
Despite herself, El snorted.
She guided him to a stone bench etched with runes and knelt before him, hands hovering inches from his side. Her magic responded immediately, glowing faintly around her fingers.
“This will hurt,” she warned.
“I’ve had worse,” Mike said.
She raised an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s something to be proud of.”
He smiled. “Comes with the job.”
As El worked, she focused on precision, threading clean magic through corrupted strands, unraveling what did not belong. Sweat beaded at her brow. This spell was not meant for someone so young, but she refused to falter.
Mike watched her instead of the wound. There was something grounding about her concentration, about the way she didn’t look afraid of him or impressed by his title. Just… focused.
“You’re different from the other mages,” he said quietly.
“That’s usually not a compliment,” El replied.
“I mean it is,” he insisted. “You don’t look at me like I’m invincible. Or stupid.”
“Good,” she said flatly. “Because you are neither. You’re brave, yes. But reckless. Charging into cursed magic without backup is foolish.”
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.
“…Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe a little foolish.”
Her hands glowed brighter, then slowly dimmed as the wound sealed, leaving only faint pink scars behind. El pulled back quickly, folding her hands in her lap as if to ground herself.
“You’ll live,” she said. “Try not to make this a habit.”
Mike sat up carefully, stunned by how whole he felt. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.
She nodded, already turning away.
“There’s a ball tonight,” he added suddenly. “For the victors.”
She paused.
“I don’t attend celebrations,” El said. “Too loud. Too many people who don’t know what to do with mages.”
Mike hesitated, then stepped forward despite the ache still lingering in his side.
“Would you come,” he asked, “if I asked you to dance?”
She turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “I don’t dance with paladins.”
“Just this one,” he said again, softer now.
For a long moment, El said nothing. Then she sighed.
“I will think about it.”
Mike grinned like he’d already won.
*****
That night, the great hall of Eldoria transformed.
Torchlight flickered against vaulted ceilings, musicians filled the air with lutes and viols, and nobles in jewel-toned silks spun across the marble floor. Victory had loosened tongues and lifted spirits, and laughter echoed where battle cries had once rung.
El stood near one of the tall columns, dressed in deep crimson robes embroidered with subtle runes. She felt out of place, as she always did, watching from the edges.
Then she saw him.
Mike had cleaned up well, too well, some might say. His armor had been replaced with formal blue-and-silver attire, hair still untamable despite clear effort. He laughed with fellow knights, but his gaze kept drifting toward the edges of the room.
Toward her.
When their eyes met, his expression softened.
He crossed the hall without hesitation, ignoring curious glances, and stopped before her.
“You came,” he said, a note of wonder in his voice.
“I said I would think about it,” El replied. “I thought long enough.”
He held out his hand. “One dance?”
She hesitated.
Then she placed her hand in his.
Magic surged.
El gasped softly as her vision changed, layers peeling back, reality shimmering. A thin red thread appeared, glowing and unmistakable, winding around her finger before stretching to Mike’s hand, wrapping his as well.
The red thread of fate.
Her heart stuttered.
Mike felt only warmth, only the strange certainty that this moment mattered more than any battle he’d fought. He drew her gently onto the floor, guiding her as the music swelled.
El barely heard it.
The legends flooded her mind, ancient texts, whispered truths. Soulbound threads, invisible to most, unbreakable to all. A bond not chosen, but revealed.
Her reluctance vanished like mist in sunlight.
As they moved together, El allowed herself to smile, resting her hand more securely in his. Mike noticed immediately.
“What?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. “Nothing. Just… promise you won’t let go.”
He promised.
And as they danced beneath torchlight and stars beyond the high windows, fate wove itself tighter around them, unseen by the world, but known at last by her.
Whatever came next, they would face it together.
Bound by magic.
Bound by choice.
Bound by the red thread of fate.
*****