I took my place near the back, knees finding the grooves worn into stone by generations of insomniacs seeking absolutionfrom thoughts they couldn't escape. The prayers came automatically, muscle memory of tongue and throat producing words while my mind wandered through more dangerous territories.
By chain and covenant, we hold.
But what if the chains were wrong?
By blood and binding, we contain.
But what if we were containing the wrong things?
By will and watching, we guard.
But what if we were guarding a lie?
The candles flickered in their sconces, casting dancing shadows that seemed to writhe with lives of their own. The incense was heavier tonight, almost oppressive, its sweetness cloying enough to make my enhanced senses rebel. Everything felt wrong, like the world had shifted slightly off its axis and was wobbling toward some inevitable correction.
That's when the Gate convulsed.
No warning. No gradual build of pressure. One moment I knelt in prayer, the next I was being dragged through space by invisible hooks buried in my sternum. The prayer chamber dissolved around me like smoke, Brother Francis's startled cry cutting off mid-syllable as reality folded inward.
I didn't enter the Threshold.
I was pulled into it.
Yanked through dimensions with enough force to leave me gasping, consciousness scattered like pearls from a broken string. No ritual preparation. No mental shields. No careful control. Just raw, violent transition that left me sprawled on the not-ground of that impossible space, my mind reeling from the sudden shift.
Kaelen stood over me.
Not circling like Flynn had. Not distant like Elias or sorrowful like Thane. He simply existed there, solid andimmediate and radiating power like a furnace. The Threshold itself seemed to bend around him, shadows deepening where he cast them, light fracturing into impossible colors at his edges. His presence filled the space with dragon fire barely contained in almost-human form.
"Your control is slipping, little Keeper."
His voice rolled through the Threshold like thunder through mountain valleys, resonating in frequencies that made my bones ache. He offered his hand, and after a moment's hesitation, I took it. His touch burned, not painfully, but with recognition that went deeper than skin. He pulled me to my feet with effortless strength, but didn't release my hand immediately. His thumb traced the golden veins visible through my palm, and everywhere he touched, they flared brighter.
"The Gate responds to what you feel, not what you think," he continued, those molten gold eyes studying my face with an intensity that made breathing difficult. "Your prayers, your meditations, your careful control, none of it matters when your heart screams louder than your discipline."
"I was praying?—"
"You were doubting." He stepped closer, still holding my hand, and I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Every word of those prayers tasted like ash in your mouth. Every repetition made the lie harder to swallow. The Gate felt it. We felt it."
The Threshold shifted around us, showing me the prayer chamber from outside perspective. My body still knelt there, frozen mid-prayer, but light poured from my eyes and the golden veins blazed through my robes. Brother Francis had scrambled backward, pressing himself against the wall. Sister Catherine had fled entirely.
"Each communion weakens the barrier between us," Kaelen said, drawing my attention back to him. His free hand rose tohover near my face, not quite touching, heat radiating from his palm. "Each time you enter this space, we become more real to each other. More solid. More possible."
"That's not?—"
"Look at me." The command in his voice was absolute. "Really look at me. Do I seem like a phantom to you? A projection? Or do I seem real enough to touch?"
He was right. In our earlier communions, the princes had seemed slightly translucent, existing in that space between dream and reality. But now Kaelen stood before me as solid as anyone I'd ever known. I could see the individual strands of his dark hair where it fell across his forehead. Could count his eyelashes. Could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that spoke of centuries of laughter before the chains, centuries of rage after.
"This shouldn't be possible."
"Shouldn't." His laugh was bitter and sharp. "According to who? The Keepers who designed a prison they didn't understand? The Council who thought they could chain gods with mortal magic?" His hand finally made contact with my face, fingers tracing my jaw with devastating gentleness. "Your blood in the Gate creates a bridge, little Keeper. Every drop you've fed it has been building a connection they never anticipated."
"My blood maintains the prison?—"
"Your blood feeds us." His thumb traced my cheekbone, leaving a trail of heat that felt like a brand. "Five years of your essence flowing directly to us. Five years of your memories, your emotions, your very self pouring into our consciousness. You're not feeding the Gate, Aria. I know you believe that."
The use of my name, not "little Keeper" or any of his other diminutives, made something in my chest tighten.
