She clamped her teeth together, fighting the command. Malus lifted his hand and the words tumbled free. “Twenty-five years ago.”
"Twenty-five years ago," he mused, standing to pour himself more wine. "I was preparing the ritual to strip Eliam's power. It required innocent blood, a catalyst..."
He trailed off, his expression shifting as he worked through something. She watched him calculate, saw understanding dawn.
"A car accident. Mortal world violence, innocent blood spilled." He turned to look at her. "My ritual was working, pulling at his power."
The warmth pulsed, agitated now.
"But Eliam must have sensed it, must have realized what I was doing."
The room felt suddenly cold despite the fire. Briar pressed back against the wall, the cracked mirror sharp against her spine.
"He intervened," Malus continued. "When your mother was dying, when her blood was spilling, when my ritual was pulling at his power—he made a bargain with her. He saved her life and in exchange..." His eyes gleamed with terrible satisfaction. "He hid part of himself where I'd never think to look. In that unborn child."
"That's impossible—"
"Is it?" He grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "The ritual needed innocent blood and got it. But instead of claiming Eliam's power for me, it created an opening he exploited. He placed a fragment of his essence inside you before you were even born. Let it grow with you, become part of you, until separating it would destroy you both."
The warmth pulsed frantically now, and she could feel the truth of it resonating in her bones. This thing she'd thought was separate, alien—it had been with her since before birth. Growing as she grew. Becoming part of who she was.
"He made you a living sanctuary for his power," Malus continued. "And now, through the bargain, you belong to me." His smile was vicious. "Which means his hidden power belongs to me as well."
"You can't—"
"Can't I?" His hand moved to her chest, pressing flat against her sternum despite the warmth's burning protest. "It's inside you. You're mine. Therefore, it's mine."
The warmth fought violently, golden light flaring so bright that Malus had to squint. But he didn't pull away, his autumn magic pressing against the warmth, trying to contain it, claim it.
"Stop," she gasped, the competing magics making her feel like she was being pulled apart from the inside.
"Submit," he commanded. "Let it recognize me as its master."
The bargain tried to force her compliance, but the warmth—Eliam's essence—wouldn't yield. It had its own will, its own loyalty, and it raged against Malus's touch with increasing violence.
"You can't force it," she managed through gritted teeth. "It's not truly mine to give."
"Then I'll tear it out of you." His fingers dug into her chest, autumn magic trying to hook into the warmth, to drag it from her by force.
The pain was excruciating. She screamed, her back arching, golden light erupting from every pore. The warmth wasn't just fighting now—it was burning, trying to destroy the autumn magic before it could take root.
Malus finally jerked back with a snarl, his hand reddened and blistered where the warmth had burned him.
"Stubborn," he said, examining his injured hand. "Just like him." He looked at her, crumpled on the floor, golden light still flickering weakly beneath her skin. "But I have time. And I have leverage. Tomorrow we'll continue exploring what you really are." He tilted her chin up. "What you can become, with the right motivation."
He left her there, crumpled on his chamber floor, the warmth in her chest flickering like a dying ember. She could feel it—Eliam's essence—trying to comfort her, but it was exhausted from fighting, from protecting her against its false king.
The door to her adjoining chambers stood open. She crawled through it, every movement agony, and collapsed on her bed. The autumn marks at her throat felt like chains, binding her to someone who would tear her apart to get to the power hidden inside her.
But the warmth, weak as it was, still pulled southward, reaching for its true source.
It still remembered who it really belonged to.
The knock came late the next afternoon. Briar had spent the day curled in bed, the bite wound on her throat finally closed but still tender. Every movement reminded her of his hands, his rage, the way he'd tried to tear the warmth from her chest.
"Come in," she called, expecting servants.
Malus entered instead, pausing in the doorway with a tray bearing wine, fruit, and delicate pastries that looked too perfect to eat. He'd changed into softer colors, russet and gold rather than the deep burgundy of last night. His expression was carefully pleasant.
