My pulse slows. The room narrows to Isolde’s face. The withdrawal symptoms fade, replaced by something colder and infinitely more dangerous.
When I speak, the voice that comes out isn’t entirely mine. It’s deeper, crueler, echoing with power I don’t fully control.
“Maybe your brother died because he was weak.” The words taste like poison in my mouth, but I can’t stop them. “And he would be disgusted if he knew what you’ve become.”
Isolde freezes, her eyes going wide with shock and fury. The blades tremble in her hands.
“What did you just say?”
“You heard me.” The cruel voice continues, and I’m horrified to realize I’m enjoying the way she flinches. “Maybe your brother was weak, and my father knew it. Maybe your cause is pointless. And maybe you’re hiding behind his corpse because you’re too afraid to admit your entire life is built on a lie.”
“Don’t you dare—” Her voice breaks. “Don’t youdaretalk about Paris.”
But the damage is done. I can see it in her eyes – the grief I just weaponized, the rage I just unleashed.
She lunges with wild, uncontrolled fury. No technique, no grace, just pure emotion driving the blades toward my heart.
But anger makes her sloppy.
I catch her wrist – moving with impossible speed – and skin meets skin.
The sun sigil blazes to life on my chest, visible through my torn clothing. Golden light spills across the chamber, casting everything in sharp relief. Pain magic pours through my hands and into Isolde’s body.
The euphoria hits immediately.
This time, it’s not just the familiar high. This time it’s overwhelming, a sensation so intense it feels like my nervous system is on fire. Isolde’s scream fills the chamber – raw, animalistic, the sound of someone experiencing agony beyond description.
And I’mrevellingin it.
The way her body convulses under my touch, the terror bleeding into her eyes, the complete control over her suffering. It feeds this dark and hungry thing inside me, something that recognizes this power and wants more.
“S-stop,” Isolde gasps weakly, blood trickling from her nose. “Please...”
But I don’t want to stop. I want to hurt her more, to make her pay for Lord Evander’s death, for the Cardinals, for the betrayal, for everything. To prove I’m stronger, more dangerous?—
“You look exactly like him,” she whispers suddenly, blood now running from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes focus on my face with terrible clarity. “You look like your father when he killed Paris.”
Horror crashes over me.
I see myself reflected in her eyes – face twisted with demonic satisfaction, the sun sigil blazing on my chest, golden light making me look divine and terrible at once. The monster I’ve always feared I was underneath.
I release her immediately, staggering backward in revulsion. My hands shake, still tingling with residual magic.
“I’m not...” I start, but the words die in my throat.
Because she’s right.
In that moment, torturing her, reveling in her pain – I was exactly like him.
Isolde collapses, coughing blood. Her amber dress is torn and stained, her perfect hair disheveled. But she’s still moving, still conscious.
She crawls toward a section of wall that looks identical to all the others, leaving a trail of blood behind her. Her fingers find something hidden in the stone – a small indentation I would never have noticed.
She presses it.
A panel slides open with a grinding sound, revealing a narrow passage carved into the rock itself.
“You are exactly like him,” she says, pulling herself through the opening despite her injuries. Blood drips from her mouth with every word. “And that’s why you have to die.”
