The name hits with force.
“—was taken.”
Everything stops.
There is no immediate reaction. No movement. No sound. My mind holds the information in place, processing it with cold precision.
Taken.
Two nights.
Alive—uncertain.
The runner continues, voice unsteady. “Rumours say the palace has him. Interrogation. Possibly?—”
“Enough,” Shanae cuts in, her voice hard and immediate. “Go.”
The runner hesitates.
“Now.”
He leaves, and the door closes.
For one measured breath, I remain still.
Then control fractures.
The table shatters beneath my hands.
Stone cracks. Wood splinters. The sounds echo through the chamber as the force of the impact tears through the structure. Markers scatter. Maps are rent. The entire surface collapses inward under the blow.
The pain in my chest surges, no longer contained. It expands outward, feeding something deeper, older, and far more dangerous.
Rage.
It rises without restraint. A full-body response, instinctive and absolute. My vision clarifies, the edges of the room defined in terms of break points and structural weaknesses. My body moves before conscious thought can intervene. I strike the nearest pillar. Stone fractures beneath the impact, cracks splintering outward.
It is insufficient.
The bond burns.
Every instinct I possess converges on a single directive.
Find him.
Eliminate all obstacles.
The rage demands movement, violence, resolution. The room cannot contain it. I strike again. Another fracture. Another failure to dissipate the force building beneath my skin.
“Varek.”
Shanae’s distant voice attempts to reach me. It does not register.
I turn, searching for something that can absorb the force of what is building inside me. There is nothing sufficient.
“Varek, listen to me.”
Her tone has changed.
