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At first Elyria had fought. She had tried. Tried to give back Malakar’s power. Tried to unburden herself from its lingering pull, however faint. But when, eventually, time and time again, she would fail, it stopped seeming worth the battle. And every so often, for a few moments, she thought about how if she were to simply stop breathing, stop existing, maybe Malakar would get what he wanted.

Maybe they both would.

Because Elyria didn’t want to do this anymore.

But neither did she want him to win.

And there was much she didn’t know about what would happen should she leave this mortal coil. Would she take his power with her? Or would that be what finally allowed him to reclaim it? She knew that uncertainty was likely the singular reason he hadn’t killed her yet.

And she also knew that if it was the latter, if she passed but his power stayed behind, there would truly be nothing to stop him from going after the only things left in Arcanis that were good and right and real.

And so, Elyria stayed.

For better or worse, she was still here.

And she hoped that would eventually count for something.

Blowing out a breath, Elyria rolled over onto her side, reaching up toward the corner of her bed to pull at the bedsheets, exposing the corner of her soft, feathery mattress and, more important, the tiny hole embedded there. With deft fingers, she reached inside, an audible sigh of relief leaving her lips as soon as the pads of her fingers brushed against the cool, smooth stone lying within. After wrapping the chain around her wrist—once, twice—Elyria coiled her fingers around Cedric’s token and drew her hands to her chest.

There was no mana left inside, not a thrum, not an inkling. But still, it felt like him.

Elyria placed her fist against her sternum and sucked in breath after breath, trying to steady the racing beat of her heart.

“Where are you?” She could feel the inner corners of her eyes burning, a tightness in the back of her throat as she whispered the words into the blank expanse of her mind. She knew she would receive no answer. Knew that if he hadn’t heard her after all these weeks, he wouldn’t hear her now.

It didn’t stop her from trying every now and again.

From daring to hope.

He was coming for her. She knew it on a soul-deep level. Because if their situation had been reversed, if it were him wasting away in some cold stone tower, being tortured by day and slowly going mad by night, there wasn’t a stars-damned thing in existence that would keep her from finding him. Not a single soul in all Arcanis would be safe until he was home with her.

And so, Elyria hoped. Despite knowing at some higher level that he shouldn’t bother. That there was a bigger threat at hand and that by looking for her, he might just be putting himself right in the path of the ultimate danger.

If Malakar knew who Cedric really was, if he figured out that Elyria was not only soul-bonded, but that her solimaeus was the grandson of the very fae who had struck him from this world, who had banished his power and caused his pain, what would the dark sorcerer do?

What was he doing now?

When he wasn’t treating Elyria like his own personal scientific experiment, wasn’t trying to claw his power back from her with blade and bone, what was Malakar up to? There were times when Elyria was set upon that table in his study to wait for him for hours. Times when he seemed more distracted than not, his head and his heart barely invested in his experiment with her at all.

Honestly, it was just rude. If he was going to insist on going through the process of torturing her over and over again, the least he could do was give her his undivided attention.

Masochist, he called her. Maybe she was. Because it was at those times that Elyria didn’t seem to be able to stop herself from goading him, despite knowing the literal pain it would bring her.

“Heart’s not in it today, my liege?” she would taunt. And he would sneer and cut her deeper or cast some new kind of spell that would tear the air from her lungs, or he would let red ribbons of blood magic dive down her throat like they were searching for that bead of magic. And it was only after she ended up on her knees, retching and vomiting up what little food she had consumed—it all tasted like ash anyway—that he would rub his temples and sigh, as though chastising her for making him lose his temper.

Like this was all her fault.

Wasn’t it, though?

A gentle knock at the door roused Elyria from her thoughts. She blinked. Blinked again. Her eyes were dry, her eyelids heavy. How much time had passed while she stewed in her pitiful reverie? Perhaps she had actually dozed off while lying there.

What is time anyway? she thought, sitting up in bed. Nothing meant anything anymore. She rubbed at her eyes, and it wasn’t until she did so that she realized she still had Cedric’s token clenched in her fist.

The sound of a key turning in the lock sent Elyria into a spiraling panic. They could not be allowed to take this from her too. She lurched up toward the corner of the bed to hastily stuff the token back into the hiding place she’d carved for it, rolling the bedsheet and a pillow over the spot just before the door cracked open and Petra’s dainty features poked around the corner.

“Um, my lady, sorry for disturbing you, but I’ve been sent back with your supper,” she said quietly.

Elyria waved her hand, beckoning Petra into the room. She hoped the gesture was casual enough to hide the rapid rise and fall of her chest. If Petra had fae senses, Elyria was certain she would have heard the walloping of her heart against her ribs.