Rurik hovers by the main door, arms crossed, shoulder braced against stone. He hasn’t said anything since we arrived.Just watches with those unsettling golden eyes, tracking my movements as if waiting for something to break.
Irritating. And oddly grounding. His presence takes up space in a way that makes the room feel smaller, less clinical. Less like the chambers where they drained me.
Auren stands near the far wall, observing with those cold analytical eyes. Not here to conduct the examination—here to interpret the results. A Brotherhood researcher works at the central table, an older woman with silver-streaked hair and hands that move with practiced efficiency. She gestures to a padded chair.
“You can sit. This won’t hurt.”
“The last person who told me that was holding a knife.” The words come out flat. Matter-of-fact. I sit anyway.
Selene takes the chair beside me without asking. Her hand finds mine, warm and steady. I don’t pull away.
The researcher gathers equipment I half-recognize—blood collection vials, a crystal that pulses with faint light, instruments that look as though they belong in an alchemist’s fever dream rather than any laboratory I’ve studied in.
“I need to examine the residual energy in your blood.” She doesn’t soften the terminology. I appreciate that more than I should. “The process will feel unusual. Some patients describe warmth. Others report a sensation of being... observed.”
“Observed by what?”
“The Relic energy itself.” She meets my gaze with steady professionalism. “It left traces in you. We need to understand what those traces mean.”
I extend my arm. The motion is automatic—how many times have I done this in hospitals, in clinics, in that mountain prison where they took and took and took? My veins are still recovering. Bruises in various stages of healing map the places where needles found purchase.
The researcher’s attention sharpens on those marks. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. From his position by the wall, Auren’s expression doesn’t change, but his posture stiffens.
“Whenever you’re ready,” I say.
The first vial fills quickly. The researcher holds it up to the light, and I watch the crystal she’s positioned nearby pulse brighter in response to my blood. The warmth she mentioned spreads through my arm—not unpleasant, but invasive. As if something is running curious fingers through my cells.
“Fascinating.” The word escapes her before she can stop it. She clears her throat, glancing toward Auren. “The Relic energy has bonded with her blood cells at a molecular level. Never seen this before.”
Auren moves toward the table, studying the pulsing crystal. “Explain.”
“She was primed.” The researcher sets the vial in a rack and reaches for another crystal, this one dark and smoky. “Used as a living conduit between the artifact and something else. Her blood wasn’t just drained—it was... altered. Made compatible with energies that should be lethal to human physiology.”
Primed. Conduit. Scientific terms for being used as a battery.
I catalog those too.
“The alterations are stable,” the researcher continues, her voice taking on the distant quality of someone thinking out loud. “Her fire responds to them. Amplifies them, perhaps. I’ll need more samples to determine the full extent of?—“
“Aisling.” Selene’s hand squeezes mine. A warning or support. Maybe both. “You don’t have to do this all at once.”
“I’m fine.”
The lie tastes familiar on my tongue.
“What else do you need to know?” I ask, addressing both the researcher and Auren. “Dates. Times. The specific procedures they used. I can provide details if that would help the analysis.”
Rurik shifts by the door. I don’t look at him.
Auren exchanges a glance with someone behind me—the rustle of wings settling, the new arrival entering the room. I don’t turn. Already know who it is. Drayke moves differently than his brothers, carries the air of command that makes even shadows pay attention.
“The procedures first,” Auren says carefully. “Describe the collection process.”
I do.
The words flow with detached precision. How they strapped me to the stone table. The angle of the channels carved to maximize drainage. The timing—every six hours for the first week, then every four as they grew more desperate. The instruments they used, crude compared to what lines these walls but brutally effective. The way something would press against my mind during the worst of it—a presence, ancient and hungry, observing through the blood they took from me.
I don’t describe how it felt. That’s not relevant to his analysis.
