He realized what was holding her up.
“No,” Polan hissed. The veneer of the therapist cracked. “Look at me.”
He squeezed her hand harder, amplifying the stone’s effect.
Gessa gasped, but she kept her eyes on Ky. He felt her pain like a physical blow, a phantom echo through a bond that shouldn’t exist but did. He pulled against the guards, a low growl building in his chest.
Polan didn’t shout. To Ky’s horror, he did something worse. He leaned in, invading her space until his face was inches from hers, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating sound that carried across the silent room like the rattle of a snake.
“Look at me,” Polan ordered, the words brittle with a fury he was barely containing. “I am the one saving you. Do not look at the disease. Acknowledge the cure.”
Gessa let out a shattered sob. Her eyes squeezed shut, breaking contact with Ky. She swayed, her resistance finally crumbling under the assault.
“Please...” she whispered, her head bowing. “Please, my Lord. It hurts.”
Polan’s expression smoothed. The fury vanished, replaced by a look of sickening, benevolent triumph. He stepped closer, moving right into her space, his voice dropping to a hypnotic soothe that made Ky’s skin crawl.
“I know it hurts, my love. The pain is the weakness leaving the body. Give it to me. Let go of him. Come back to me.”
“I can’t...” she sobbed, her body trembling violently. She slumped toward him, looking defeated. “Help me. Please. Make it stop.”
“That’s it,” Polan cooed. He released the pressure on the stone but didn’t let go of her hand. He stepped in to embrace her, to claim his victory, his arrogance blinding him to everything but his own narrative. “I have you. You’re home.”
Ky froze.
He saw the slump of her shoulders. He heard the shattered plea. But he looked closer, past the performance.
He had held this woman in the dark when the memories of this very thing woke her screaming. He knew the frantic, erratic rhythm of her breathing when the terror was real. He knew what it felt like when she was truly breaking against his chest.
This was different.
Beneath the trembling, her breath was steady. Measured. She wasn’t falling. She was coiling.
Ky understood.
The rage didn’t leave him, but he buried it deep, under a mask of devastation. He let out a long, ragged exhale and stopped pulling against the guards. He slumped forward, his head bowing, his shoulders dropping as if the sight of her surrender had finally severed his own will.
He gave Polan exactly what he wanted: a broken man witnessing the end of his world.
Polan watched him fall apart and smiled—a look of supreme, validated ego. He believed he had broken them both in a single stroke.
“See?” Polan murmured over Gessa’s shoulder, his eyes locking with Ky’s defeated form. “Even he accepts the truth now.” He flicked a hand at the men holding Ky. “Release him. Let him watch her come home.”
The guards hesitated for a second, then stepped back, releasing Ky’s arms. They saw what Polan saw: a man who had nothing left to fight for.
Polan had just given her the opening.
“Thank you...” Gessa whispered against Polan’s chest.
Her free hand didn’t reach for him. It snapped out, seizing the oil lamp from the table beside them. In one fluid motion, she smashed the lamp into his face.
Oil and fire exploded.
Polan shrieked—a sound of pure, high-pitched agony that shredded the tent’s silence. He reeled back, clawing at his burning tunic, the stone dropping from his hand.
But the fire didn’t stop with him. The splash of burning oil arced across the desk, soaking the ancient parchment maps. They ignited with a violentwhoosh, the dry paper curling into ash in a heartbeat. The flames leaped hungrily to the thicksouthern tapestries hanging behind the desk, climbing the fabric like a living thing.
In seconds, the sterile opulence of the command tent vanished, replaced by a roaring, blistering inferno. Black smoke pooled against the silk ceiling, choking the air, while the heat rose to a furnace blast that Ky could feel even from across the room.
