Thrax reached out through his mind and an invisible grip closed around Winifred’s neck like a collar. His hands flew to his throat, choking, clawing at nothing, mouth open and rasping, body twitching and stumbling as his face bloomed crimson.
It was a beautiful sound—his gasping. So fragile, human, and familiar, like a song he had longed to hear.
He waited, listened, eyes distant, slowly drifting into boredom until the man’s suffering was nothing more than a fireplace crackling too loud.
Then, with a blink of disinterest, he released him.
Winifred collapsed, coughing, wheezing, his body sagging into the floorboards.
Thrax rose and crossed the room in slow steps, crouching beside the old man like one might approach a dying animal meant for dinner.He drew the hilt of his blade and used it to lift Winifred’s chin, forcing eye contact.
The man had aged.
He remembered when he was born.
“Your ancestors were called The Protectors,” he murmured. “Your bloodline was tasked with protecting her. Keeping her from me. Ensuring that when she was reborn, she would never come close enough to me.”
He tilted the hilt higher, forcing Winifred’s neck to stretch painfully.
It was Selvanyra’s order. She had made the bloodline so that he would be denied of her soul till the end.
“Stay away from her,” Thrax tilted his head to one side, studying him. “I won’t warn you again.”
Winifred spat out his defiance, words slurred from the struggle. “Get out. You’ll never get what you want from Sanora. I’ll make sure of that.”
Thrax smiled, but it was empty. “Your ancestors will weep, for their efforts to keep her from me is vanity. Sanora was mine the moment the stars blinked her into existence.” His voice dropped. “And if you ever think to place yourself between us, I’ll dry the blood from your body and salt what’s left of your memory so no one remembers you ever walked this world.”
He rose to his full height, dagger spinning once between his fingers before vanishing into his coat. He stepped over Winifred and pulled open the door.
Fresh air hit him like a relief. The inside of Winifred’s house had felt like suffocating inside a dying prayer—
His breath caught in his throat.
Across the narrow street, just ahead of the crooked bookshop,sheappeared.
Sanora.
She was wrapped in layers of matching fabric from head to toe, her figure bundled like some chaotic, beautiful gift—clumsy, too large, all wrong—and yet perfect, hair dyed brown, threads of green weaving through.
She moved hesitantly, as though she was navigating her own fear, reaching for a car door and opening it. The moment she turned the key and the engine obeyed, she lit up like a star.
Her joy was jagged and frantic, like a girl trying to outrun the fear blooming just behind it.
He felt both.
He couldn’t read her mind, but he had beenlivingher emotions.
Her joy, full and brilliant, cracked against his ribs like lightning, and a quiet fear coiled beneath his skin.
She was chaotic, stubborn and uncontrollable.
And she wasn’t with the medallion.
He could feel it in the way the air didn’t burn. The way the distance between them wasn’t tearing at his skin. That cursed object wasn’t on her. If she’d been wearing it, he wouldn’t have been able to stand this close. Wouldn’t have been able to breathe without pain.
He could breathe her in from here. Peacefully.
She turned into the street, and he watched her until she disappeared. Until even the sound of her car became a memory. And he felt empty and soulless once more.
