Metal shrieks. The chain does not merely break; it explodes, the link shattering into incandescent fragments that ricochet off the stone walls. The sound is a thunderclap in the confined space.
I do not move to attack. The test has begun. I take the length of the broken chain and strike it methodically against the wall, creating a loud, rhythmicclang… clang… clangthat echoes through the lower levels of the fortress. It is a crude alarm, but it will be effective. Then, I let the chain drop and resume my position of absolute stillness, waiting, listening, observing.
The response is precisely as I predicted. First, panicked shouting from the upper levels. Then, the heavy, undisciplined pounding of multiple sets of boots. They are amateurs. Brave, but amateurs.
A squad of six guards appears at the doorway, their spears held in a defensive posture. Their initial formation is disorganized, a jumble of fear and aggression. The one called Tarek barks a sharp order, and they fall into a practiced, if imperfect, shield-wall before the cell’s entrance. Their fear is a palpable scent in the air, but it is tempered by a fierce, protective loyalty. They are willing to die here. A commendable, if foolish, trait.
They hold their position, waiting for their queen. I remain motionless, allowing them to believe they have me contained. I am cataloguing their armor, the quality of their spear tips, the way their eyes dart around, searching for a threat.
Suddenly, she arrives.
The Anomaly does not rush. She walks into the corridor with a calm, deliberate stride, her presence immediately altering the dynamic of the scene. Her guards stand taller, their fear receding, replaced by a focused resolve. Her eyes, sharp andintelligent, take in the scene in an instant: the shattered chain, my stillness, the defensive posture of her men.
There is no panic on her face. I feel the hum of the etheric link between us, and her emotional state is not the frantic terror I expected. It is a cold, razor-sharp focus. She understands. She knows this is a test.
She issues a series of quiet, precise commands to Tarek, her voice too low for me to hear. He nods, then directs two of the guards to create a diversion, banging their shields and shouting from the right side of the doorway. It is a simple tactic, meant to draw my attention.
As they do, she moves. She enters the cell from the left, a long, iron-tipped polearm in her hands. She does not approach me head-on but circles, using the weapon’s length to keep a safe distance. Her movements are efficient, ruthless. She is not the frightened slave from Valthos. That creature is gone. In her place is a warrior. A queen.
I could kill her before she takes another breath. Even with the dampeners and the lingering sedative, I am faster. But that is not the objective. The objective is to observe.
Her attack is not a wild swing. It is a precise, calculated strike. She feints high, and as my gaze tracks the movement, she reverses the polearm, slamming the blunt, heavy base of it into the pressure point just below my left knee.
Pain, sharp and blinding, explodes up my leg. My knee buckles, and I am forced to the ground, my body momentarily unresponsive to my commands. It is a brilliantly executed, non-lethal disabling blow.
Before I can recover, she is on me. Not with the polearm, but with a length of heavy chain. She and Tarek work with a practiced, brutal efficiency, binding my arms, my legs, looping the new chain through the iron rings on the wall until I am once again immobile, more securely bound than before. She does nothesitate. She is not afraid to touch me, but her touch is entirely functional, her focus absolute. There is no wasted motion.
As she pulls the final chain taut, securing my wrists behind my back, I study her. The initial assessment was flawed. She is not simply The Source, a biological resource to be collected. She is not a chaotic variable. She is a complex and formidable adversary. She has evolved. The challenge of retrieving the specimen has increased tenfold. The calculation has shifted, become more intricate.
The problem has become… intriguing.
She finishes her work and stands, her breath coming in slight, controlled puffs in the cold air. She is about to turn and leave, her victory complete.
“You learn quickly,” I say.
My voice is a low, quiet monotone, but the words halt her as effectively as a physical blow. Her shoulders stiffen. She turns her head slowly, her eyes wide with a stunned, disbelieving shock. It is the first crack I have seen in her queenly composure. The first time I have addressed her as something other than a problem to be solved. It is an acknowledgment. A statement of fact. And, I realize with a flicker of unwelcome insight, it is a sign of respect.
She stares at me for a heartbeat longer, her expression a whirlwind of confusion and suspicion, before she schools her features into a mask of cold indifference, turns, and leaves me in the darkness.
13
ELZA
The next day, after our confrontation, the air in the cell is even thicker with unspoken violence. Days of his cold, clinical questions and my clipped, hateful answers have led to this—a raw, festering wound between us.
“You are a monster,” I spit, my voice echoing in the small, damp space. I stand just outside the bars, my knuckles white where I grip them. “You feel nothing. You see my son, your son, as athingto be collected.”
He is bound to the wall, but he is not cowed. He looks at me, his abyss-black eyes holding a chilling calm that infuriates me more than any rage could. “Feeling is a symptom of The Fading. A chaos I have no desire to embrace. Your blood, however, forces that chaos. It is an incendiary. It burns away discipline.” He pauses, his gaze dropping to the pulse fluttering in my throat. “What happened in that cell five years ago was not my choice. It was a chemical reaction. You were the catalyst.”
The accusation, so cold and logical, hits me like a physical blow. The air leaves my chest in a sharp hiss. He is blaming me. Blaming me for my own violation.
“You dare,” I whisper, my voice trembling with a fury so profound it makes my vision swim.
The psychic bond between us, always a low hum in his proximity, erupts into a violent, deafening roar. It is a maelstrom of emotion—my white-hot rage slamming into his ancient, buried frustration. But beneath it all, there is a third, terrifying current: a desperate, shared loneliness that connects us, a hollow ache that is identical in both of our souls. The intensity is a physical nausea, a vertigo that threatens to pull me under.
My hand flies to my dagger, the familiar weight of it a desperate anchor in the storm. I cannot stand this. I cannot standhim.
“You want to call me the poison?” I snarl, my fingers fumbling with the lock on the cell door, a mad, desperate idea taking root. “You want to hide behind your cold words and pretend you are not a beast?”
