The chamber is circular and constructed from black stone polished to a faint, unnatural sheen. Sigils are carved into the walls at measured intervals, not chaotic or decorative, but mathematical in their precision.
The floor beneath me is etched with spiraling glyphwork that glows faintly beneath my palms where I sit. They are not draining me. I recognize the difference immediately. These sigils are regulators, containment without depletion. Control without visible violence.
Whoever designed this prison understands magic intimately. I lift my head.
Malrend does not hide in shadow.
He stands in the chamber as though he is hosting a discussion rather than overseeing captivity. His pale hair falls over one shoulder in deliberate arrangement, silver-white against dark elven skin that seems almost luminous in the torchlight. His features are refined, strikingly symmetrical, his posture relaxed in a way that speaks not of arrogance but of certainty.
“You wake without panic,” he observes, his voice smooth and unhurried. “That is encouraging.”
I reach for the bond before I respond. It answers me at once. It is distant, strained by interference, but intact. I feel Zeidan like a steady pulse beyond interference, muted but real.
“You will not undo it,” I say quietly.
Malrend’s expression curves into something that might almost pass for amusement. “Undo it? No. I have no desire to dismantle such a fascinating construct. Your bond with the fang prince is what I need.”
He begins to circle slowly, measured steps tracing the outer ring of the containment sigils. Each time he nears, the glyphs beneath me flare in subtle response, not in fear, but in calibration.
“You mistake your importance, Amelia of Nytheria,” he continues. “The Wildspont does not concern me because it weakens. It concerns me because it can be directed.”
“You poisoned it,” I say.
“Yes,” he replies without hesitation, without apology.
There is no pleasure in the admission. Only clarity.
“I required instability. Instability breeds uncertainty. Uncertainty fractures councils. Fractured councils create desperation. And desperation produces supply.”
The word lands heavily.
“You orchestrated the unrest,” I say slowly. “The assassinations. The blight. The council divisions.”
“They were necessary accelerants,” he answers. “Your coven has grown complacent beneath the illusion of sacred permanence. Sacred systems are inefficient. They resist restructuring.”
“You call trafficking restructuring?”
He studies me carefully, as though evaluating whether I deserve honesty.
“I call it redistribution,” he replies. “Magical assets are most profitable when removed from inefficient custodianship.”
“You mean Purna.”
“I mean resources.”
Rage presses against my ribs, but I refuse to let it disrupt my breathing. If he expects hysteria, he will not receive it.
“The Wildspont,” I say, holding his gaze. “You do not need me to fix it.”
He inclines his head slightly.
“No,” he agrees. “I do not.”
A faint, cold understanding begins to form.
“I need you to end it,” he continues.
The sigils beneath me brighten almost imperceptibly, responding to the shift in his intent.
