Page 219 of Blade of the Nightking

His brows knitted.

“The Looking Glass is still intact,” I continued. “I found it while you two were... occupied.”

He looked as though I'd punched him in the face a second time.

“It's in a warded room.”

Rìan swore under his breath and dragged a hand through his hair. “How did you get in?”

I gave him a look.

“Did you put the wards back when you left?” he demanded. “Elyndra will know if they've been tampered with.”

“Exactly as I found them.” I folded my arms across my chest. “You really think I'm stupid, don't you?”

“No,” he said immediately. “I don't.”

I couldn’t meet his gaze. “I saw through it into another room. Everything was turquoise and silver.”

The effect was immediate. Rìan's hands curled into white-knuckled fists. “Pelaga.” The word sounded like a curse.

He headed immediately for his blades on the side table, but his hand caught briefly on the edge as he reached for them.

“You need to sleep,” I said, noticing.

“We need to leave.”

“There are still people around,” I argued. Despite the early hour, moans drifted up from downstairs. Not as loud as before, but enough to make it clear the night was far from over. “We'll be seen.”

He continued fastening his belt, methodically settling each blade back into its sheath. “It's not safe here.” His face was drawn with exhaustion, bruised shadows pooling beneath his eyes.

“One hour,” I said firmly.

I thought he would argue. Instead, he sighed, sheathed his final blade, and gave a reluctant nod. “One hour.”

I sagged back against the wooden headboard.

“Eidra,” he said after a moment.

He didn't turn to face me, as though he couldn't bear to look at me.

“Never again,” he murmured. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said weakly.

He let out a slow breath, then pulled on his boots, gathered his cloak, and crossed back to the bed. Without another glance in my direction, he lay down, shoved the bundled cloak beneath his head, and closed his eyes.

I lay back onto the mattress. My gaze immediately caught on our reflections in the mirrored ceiling, and a fresh wave of mortification washed over me. How was I ever supposed to look him in the eye again?

My magic had never done anything like that before—possessed me and bent me to its will.

Although… perhaps, in a way, that was exactly what it always did.

I thought back to Midland. To the Infected. To the way I'd slaughtered them when Aedric's life had been threatened. Even when I killed Sevrien, I'd felt detached from myself, as though I were merely watching from somewhere far away while my magic acted through me.

It always happened when something it valued was at risk.

And tonight, it had made itself perfectly clear. It wanted Rìan.