But it’s a performance.
They want me to stay calm and go along with their plan. They want me to view them as reasonable, maybe even kind, so that when they finally take what they want from me, I’ll think it’s necessary. I’ll believe in their sad stories of infertility and a desire to save their kind, and go along withit.
They see only my womb, as Gregory did. They crave what my magic has enabled: my potential to bear offspring for whatever purpose they require. Even Lythian, with her quiet sorrow, sees only her own hope to be realized through me.
I can pity her.
I can even understand her a little.
But I will never allow or forgive this.
Eventually, one by one, they rise and leave. Lythian is last. She pauses at the doorway and looks back at me.
“Rest,” she says. “You will need your strength.”
The door closes, and the room goes quiet again. I lie still for a long time, listening and waiting, hoping my dragons are close. The cloak weighs heavily, and the ache in my wrists worsens.
I close my eyes as tears run down my cheeks and into my hair. I let myself cry, releasing some of the tension, but only for a moment.
With a shuddering breath, I reach inward.
My magic is still there, somewhere. It’s faint and hidden, like a heartbeat under heavy blankets. The cloak smothers it, dulling its power but not erasing it completely.
I breathe slowly. In through my nose and out through my mouth.
Again.
Again.
I focus on pushing the magic to my palms.
Nothing happens. I try again and again, pushing so hard my head aches and sweat breaks out on my upper lip.
Then a tiny, weak spark flickers. I gather it carefully, coaxing it upward, guiding it like a thread through the dark.At first it resists, slow under the cloak’s weight, but I keep breathing and focusing.
My palms begin to tingle as warmth gathers there, faint but real.
I open my eyes and stare at the dresser across the room. A ceramic vase rests on its edge, painted with curling dragons.
I focus on it, pushing my magic outward. If I can move it even a little, I’ll know my magic is strong enough to break through the cloak with practice.
The magic shakes, almost slipping away. I grit my teeth and push, gently and carefully, picturing cracks forming in the heavy fabric that surrounds me.
The vase shudders.
Then it slides, moving only a little across the polished wood, but it’s something.
My breath catches, and hope rises. My magic is weak, but it’s there. If I can move a vase, I can do more.
I sink back against the pillows as my magic fades again.
These dragons think I’m contained. They think I’m waiting, subdued until their terrible plans come to pass.
They’re wrong.
I will get out of this place.
And when I do, I will take my children with me.
