Page 80 of The Vespertine Treaty

He raised his hand. I saw the pure, terrifying silver of concentrated Obscurer magic coiling around his fingers—the power to warp perception, steal truth, and enforce absolute silence.

“Cain is reckless. He possesses sway over the Consul that is deeply disturbing, and he will undoubtedly succeed me soon,” Malathor explained, his eyes fixed on my face, the confession acasual, brutal truth. “I will not be usurped by a petulant child who carries the stigma of a monster. I need him unstable. I need him distracted. I intend to find the weakness in his mental shields—the crack you so clearly found while nursing him—and I intend to widen it until his political influence is nothing but incoherent madness.”

“You want to break his mind,” I whispered, horror dawning.

“I want to shatter it,” Malathor corrected. “And you, my dear, are the hammer.”

He moved with chilling speed. A flash of silver light, cold and heavy, slammed into my core.

It wasn't pain; it was annihilation. The world tilted, the scent of lilies and the metallic tang of magic warping into a dizzying rush. I tried to scream, to thrust the hidden blade I grabbed before departing, but my body failed, instantly paralysed, my consciousness dissolving into nothing.

I woke to the absence of sound in my apparent silver cage.

My head throbbed. I was alone, dressed in the humiliating linen shift. The room was an oval of padded, shimmering silk—no windows, no doors, just endless, seamless silver.

The Obscurer magic had not just stolen my consciousness; it had left a residue in my core, muffling the very essence of my magic, although muted by years of blight. It felt like cotton wool stuffed into my soul.

I was a captive.

The realisation sparked not tears, but pure, ice-cold terror. I scrambled off the chaise, my legs shaking, and beat my fists uselessly against the cold, beautiful silk walls. I searched the perimeter, pulling at the sealed seams, the fear rising in my throat—a tight, choking knot.

I began to gasp, the breaths short, shallow, and ineffective. This was not fear; this was panic. The walls were closing in, the silver silk whispering cruel reminders of my powerlessness. The silence, my constant companion, became the screaming reality of my total isolation.

I am not safe. I am nothing. They know I am nothing and they will treat me as such.I heard my mother’s poisonous voice clear as if she were standing triumphant before me.

The world outside the silver walls ceased to exist. My focus collapsed entirely onto the smooth, sterile surface of the floor. My breathing grew ragged, my vision blurring, and my connection to my own body began to fray. I was dissociating. I looked down at my hands, pale and trembling in the harsh light, and they looked utterly alien, the hands of a stranger trapped in a beautiful coffin.

Then, through the fog of my terror, a thought, dark and traitorous, surfaced.

I need him.

I hated him. I hated his coldness, his power, the shame he inflicted on me. I hated the smell of vanilla on his skin and the cruelty of his words.

Yet, with Malathor’s malice surrounding me, with the very air pressing down, I found myself collapsing onto the velvet futon, my body convulsing in silent, dry sobs.

I wasn't praying to the Primordial gods. I wasn't praying to the light.

I was praying to the uncaring ceilings of the monstrous cage I found myself in for the sight of Cain Alistair’s obsidian armour. I needed the presence of the one monster who might be powerful enough to keep the others at bay.

The humiliation was complete. I, the Life-Wielder, the defiant heir, was begging for the monster of the Void to save me from the darkness.

CHAPTER 30

CAIN

The silence in the manor was not peaceful; it was a predator holding its breath.

I stood before the heavy oak doors of Ophelia’s chambers, my hand hovering inches from the iron handle. The shadows that lived beneath my skin were restless today, coiling around my wrists like agitated vipers. They sensed it before I did. They tasted the staleness in the air, the lack of that distinct, floral warmth that usually seeped through the wood grain whenever she was near.

I told myself I was simply early. That I was checking on her to ensure she was ready for the evening meal, not because the tether in my chest—that damnable, golden thread she had somehow woven into my dark soul—was pulling taut, vibrating with a frequency that set my teeth on edge.

"Ophelia?"

My voice was low, a rumble meant to warn rather than invite.

Silence.

No rustle of silk. No soft, defiant huff of breath she often gave when I intruded. No patter of that ridiculous creature’s paws.