I wish Mother were here. Though she never experienced this addiction herself – her healing magic never demanded the way mine does – she spent years searching for a solution.
Someone at the Conclave might remember her. Might know her. Perhaps I’ll finally find answers.
I reach for the leather strap on my bag, trying to loop it through the buckle. It slips. I try again, but my hands won’t cooperate. The tremor makes the metal slide through my fingers.
A soft knock at my door makes me freeze.
“Come in,” I call, quickly wiping the sweat from my forehead.
Lord Zevran steps inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He’s changed into simple clothes – dark trousers and a loose white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. Even in the casual clothing, I can see the stiffness in his movements. He stays near the door, watching me with careful attention.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asks, noting my packed belongings and the fact that I’m still fully dressed despite the late hour.
“Too much to think about.” I gesture helplessly at the bag.
He moves closer, slow and stiff. Two days without healing has taken its toll on both of us. I watch his eyes scan my face. “You’re pale.”
“I’m fine. Just…” I reach for the strap again, but another tremor runs through my hands. The buckle clatters against the bedpost.
“Cyra...” He crosses the room in three strides and reaches for my wrist. His fingers find my pulse, racing and erratic. “Are you ill? What’s wrong?”
I pull my hand back. “N-Nothing. Just … nervous about the Conclave.”
“No. This is something else.” His voice is firm but not unkind.
The directness of it strips away my defences. I sink onto the edge of the bed, no longer able to stand without the room tilting.
A look of recognition crosses Lord Zevran’s face. “When was the last time you healed someone?” he asks quietly.
I look down at my trembling hands. “Two days. Since our last session.”
“Two days.” He sits beside me carefully. I look up to see an expression of understanding slowly dawn across his face. “And you feel like this every time you don’t heal for a period of time?”
I nod, unable to meet his eyes.
“How often do you need it?”
I don’t answer at first, eyes glued to my trembling hands shaking in my lap. I breathe … in, out.
He was bound to find out eventually.
“Every day. Sometimes more, if I can.” The admission comes outreluctantly. “I’ve been helping servants. Small injuries. Nothing serious.” I try to downplay everything, afraid of the judgment that will follow.
“Because you need to use the magic.” Lord Zevran says – not accusatory, just fact.
I furrow my brow.
“No, because it helps them?—”
“Andbecause you need it.” He takes the travel strap from where it fell, loops it through the buckle one-handed, and sets the bag aside. “Cyra … if your body is dependent on using your magic...”
“I know what it sounds like,” I say, sharper than intended. “But I’m helping people. How can that be wrong?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then his hand moves – slowly, deliberately – to cover mine where it rests on the bed between us. His palm is warm.
“It’s not wrong to help people,” he says quietly, his eyes on our joined hands. “But if you can’t stop … that’s not choice anymore. That’s compulsion.”
The shame wells up inside me. Compulsion is the same word whispered about the Sun King’s addiction to his powers in old stories … the same monster that’s been passed down to me.
