Paz's expression was a complicated mix of guilt and resignation. "Miss Davenport, perhaps you should sit down."
"I don't want to sit down. I want to know where Malrik is and what he's doing." The patterns on my skin flared with my rising emotion, and several books on the desk rustled as if caught by a wind.
Paz flinched slightly but held his ground. "He's in the catacombs... performing the ritual. The voluntary dissipation. To stabilize you."
"He can't do that," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "Was it hurting me? I don't remember."
"We believe so, yes." Paz adjusted his spectacles nervously. "After the surge this morning, after you lost consciousness, we researched what might be happening. The texts suggested that bonds formed without proper ritual preparation can become volatile. The power was consuming you."
"There has to be another way," I said, gesturing to the notes scattered across the desk. "I'm better now. We could have figured this out together."
"He didn't want you to feel responsible," Paz said quietly. "He was quite adamant about that. The power transfer was his fault, the instability was his fault, and therefore the solution should be his burden alone."
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," I snapped.
Despite everything, Paz's lips twitched slightly. "I may have expressed similar sentiments, though perhaps more diplomatically."
I turned back to the desk, my anger giving way to something closer to panic. "How long has he been performing this ritual?"
Paz checked his pocket watch. "Approximately four hours."
"Can it be stopped?" I asked.
"No," Paz said firmly. "Any interference could be catastrophic. The ritual requires absolute focus and isolation. If he's disturbed mid-process..." He trailed off, but his meaning was clear.
"He could die," I finished.
Paz nodded gravely.
I sank into the chair behind Malrik's desk, overwhelmed by the weight of what was happening. Malrik was sacrificing everything. His power, possibly his life. To save me.
I should have been furious. Part of me was. But mostly I felt a crushing sense of loss for what he was giving up. What he was giving up for me.
My eyes fell on another book, partially hidden beneath the others. I pulled it free and found it open to a section on soul bonds. Most of the text was in that same archaic language, but someone, Malrik, judging by the handwriting, had translated portions.
I read slowly, trying to make sense of the formal phrasing:
"The soul bond is not a prison but a bridge. It cannot be forced, only offered and accepted. When power is shared without true consent, without clarity of will and declaration, the essence itselfrebels, not in rejection, but in demand. The power knows what the conscious mind denies: that a bridge requires two willing travelers."
I read it again, more carefully this time.
Not rejection. Demand.
My fingers trembled as I turned to the next page, where Malrik had underlined a passage so heavily the pen had scored the ancient paper:
"Power drawn without consent becomes poison. Power chosen becomes union."
The words seemed to glow on the page, and suddenly everything clicked into place with stunning clarity.
The power hadn't been trying to consume me. It had been trying to force me to make a choice. A real choice, conscious and deliberate declaration, not just passive acceptance of something that had happened to me.
"Oh my god," I whispered.
"Miss Davenport?" Paz moved closer, concerned. "Are you alright?"
"It wasn't rejection," I said, looking up at him. "The instability, the surge. It wasn't the power trying to consume me. It was demanding that I choose. Actually choose, not just accept what happened by accident."
Paz blinked behind his spectacles. "I... I don't understand."
