I keep my mental barriers firmly up as my attention latches to her hands: knuckles gone bone-white, a thin tremor running through them she can’t quite hide. I remember that tremor—the same as on the parapet when she held off those frost-drakes, a frantic, desperate energy. And I remember the sickening, final stillness of Elara’s throat beneath those same hands.
Leave her, or you’ll become one.
The words I gave her were a tool, a weapon to shock her back into the fight. But they were also the truest thing I’ve said in years. I know the landscape of ghosts. I have walked it until my own feet became numb. I see the path she is on, the first terrible step, and a feeling I refuse to name coils in my chest, hot and sharp as a shard of glass.
I tell myself it’s mere instinct, recognition of a comrade’s weakness. But that’s a lie. Because even trembling, with her jaw locked tight and amethyst eyes shadowed from sleepless nights, she is still… beautiful. Too much so.
It’s in the line of her mouth when she refuses to yield, the sharp angle of her cheek caught in firelight, the fierce brightness that refuses to dim. Not delicate beauty—never that. Hers is carved from grit and defiance, and it unsettles me more than any fragile grace could.
I should not notice. But I do. Again and again.
My gaze travels to the platter of food Selen left. Sustenance. A practical need. I move around the table, my steps making no sound on the stone floor. I pick up a piece of bread, my movements measured, and hold it out to her.
She flinches, her lilac eyes snapping to mine, wide and wary. She doesn’t take it.
“Eat,” I say, the word flat by necessity.
She just stares at me, her chin lifted in that stubborn way that grates on my every nerve. “I’m not hungry.”
“That wasn’t a question.” I push the bread closer, myknuckles almost brushing her hand. The heat between us is a palpable thing. “You expended a massive amount of energy. If you collapse, you’re a liability.”
It’s a logical, tactical truth. But through the bond, I feel her reaction to the words—a flare of indignation, a fresh wave of grief, a sharp, cutting sense of being seen as nothing more than a piece on a board. She is far less skilled than I am at masking what she feels.
Beneath it all is a sliver of confusion, aimed directly at me.Why do you even care now? What has been the point of all this for you?
The silent questions hang in the air, and for a moment, I almost answer the first one honestly.Because the thought of you lying broken on the stone floor makes my chest feel like it’s collapsing.But I crush the impulse, burying it under layers of ice and discipline.
I drop the bread onto the table in front of her. “Suit yourself.”
The mute man looks between us pensively, but is so still he might as well not be here.
I turn away, moving to the far side of the room where a series of ancient-looking weapons are mounted on the wall. A fae longsword, its hilt wrapped in faded leather. A set of throwing knives, their blades shaped like tapering leaves. My fingers trace the cool steel of the sword. It’s well-balanced, a relic from a time before imperial iron choked the artistry from our smiths. A time when we fought for ourselves.
It was never about winning,I send, my back still to her. My inner voice is low, meant for the cavern and for the space between our minds.It was never about glory or advantage.
I feel her shift behind me, the subtle turn of her head.Then what? Killing Blaise? Destroying the temple?
I feel her confusion warring with accusation. She still thinks I meant to destroy it from the foundations up. She still sees onlydestruction in me. And why shouldn't she? It’s all I’ve shown her. It's all I've shown myself.
Blaise was part of it.I turn, leaning my shoulder against the stone wall, my arms crossed. The firelight carves shadows across my face, and I let them hide me.But the shard... the scepter... even the temple… none of it was ever the target. It was all a distraction.
A flicker of disbelief crosses her face.Then what was?The question is a raw scrape in my mind, layered with frustration.
It was all about waking something in my blood that the empire feared enough to slaughter my family,I say, each word dragging lower, weighted with the fury I keep shackled.They left me alive to prove a point: that even I could be broken. But they never told the world why.
I watch her process this, her beautiful, stubborn expression shifting to confusion with flickers of shock.But…
The emperor’s line has always made a practice of culling any House, any bloodline that might one day rival their own,I continue.Why do you think they’ve endured in power since the end of the Hollow Wars? The Malvrics were nothing but instruments in the emperor’s design. Blaise’s death… necessary, yes, but still incidental.
I’m glancing elsewhere,but I sense her breathing is faster now, imagine her soft lips parted slightly as she gazes at me.
And… this tournament,I say, focusing, the words burning bitter on my tongue,the one that happens every five years… It always contains some potent element of old magic—usually mingled with the emperor’s own power, though nobody is ever told that. It’s part of the spectacle. Part of his control.
Her brow furrows, a small, sharp line of concentration between her eyes. The firelight catches the lilac in them, turning them to violet jewels, and for a half-second, my train of thought fractures.
What I needed… What I needed was to make it to the final round.I force myself to look away again, to focus back on the cold steel of the blade on the wall. This is a confession I have nevergiven voice to before.Be there, in the eyes of the emperor, at the height of the bloodshed… to use that corrupted energy as a catalyst.
I push off the wall, unable to stay still. The room feels too small, her presence too large. I pace before the fire, the shadows dancing around me like ghosts.
