Eliza could feel it—the pulse beneath the floor, old and vengeful, rising. The air itself thickened, tasting of salt and storm.
One of the mages turned on her, panic and fury mixing in his voice. "This is your doing! You brought this!"
"I warned you," she hissed. "You have no idea what you're touching."
The man raised his hand as if to strike her, but stopped—because Rakhal moved.
A sound tore through the chamber: the groan of metal giving way. His head lifted, eyes wide open, pupils drowned in black. The runes on his skin blazed for one heartbeat and then exploded into shadow.
The wards shattered.
The pressure wave hit first—cold, heavy, thick with power. The torches died instantly. The only light came from the mages' stones, glowing white-hot before dimming to gray.
The shadows rose, no longer a whisper but a roar. They poured out of the cracks and from Rakhal's own wounds, flooding the air, wrapping the room in liquid dark.
Rakhal tore the last of the chains from the wall. The iron screamed, sparks flying as they snapped. He staggered once, then straightened, breath ragged.
One mage tried to cast—a word half-formed—but Rakhal was faster. He moved like a storm breaking its banks. His hand caught the man's throat. Shadows followed, twisting around both of them. When they withdrew, only ash hit the stones.
The last mage fell back, stumbling over Yharen's corpse. He raised his hands, but the spell died on his lips. The darkness crawled up his legs, swallowed him whole.
Silence.
For a long moment, only Rakhal's breathing broke the silence—sharp, fast bursts as if he were learning to breathe again.
Eliza's bindings flickered, weakened, then disintegrated into dust. She fell forward, catching herself on her palms. Her breath came fast, chest heaving.
The shadows still clung to the corners of the room, but they moved differently now—slower, drawn toward Rakhal like smoke toward a flame.
He stood in the centre of it all, half-naked, blood streaked down his side, the glow of the runes fading from his skin. His body trembled with the effort of containing what he had unleashed.
"Eliza," he said, his voice raw.
She rose slowly, ignoring the tremor in her legs. "You—" Her words faltered.
His eyes found hers, still rimmed in black but not empty. They burned.
"I told them to stop." His voice cracked. "They didn't."
He took a step toward her. The shadows followed, curling around his ankles like loyal hounds.
She didn't move. She couldn't. Her pulse thundered, but not from fear.
He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin.
"They'll come," she whispered. "Thalorin. The guards. The whole tower?—"
"Let them," he said.
A tremor passed through him, the remnants of fury and magic still coursing beneath his skin. His hand lifted, slow,uncertain, and brushed the rope burn at her wrist. The touch was light, but her heart hammered all the same.
"I thought you betrayed me," he murmured.
"I thought you were dead."
Something changed in his face then—rage softening into something deeper, heavier. The kind of ache that had no words.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. The air around them pulsed, shadows shifting, restless.
