I breathe slowly, because slow is a knife I still own.
Inhale.
Not four this time. Five.
Hold.
Not six. Three.
Exhale.
Too long for comfort, long enough that my lungs burn and the siphon loses its clean purchase.
The ritual shudders.
The channels beneath me spit a thin spray of black light toward Maltherion’s hand, and he withdraws with a hiss. His eyes narrow, all amusement gone now.
“You are disrupting the sympathetic sequence.”
“Good.”
“You cannot sustain it.”
“Watch me.”
He strikes me.
The blow snaps my face to the side and floods my mouth with blood. Pain explodes across my cheekbone, bright and stunning. My body wants to inhale sharply, wants to take the bait and let adrenaline kick my heart into the pattern he is waiting to seize.
I do not gasp.
I press my tongue to the cut inside my mouth and breathe through my nose instead.
Ragged, yes.
Controlled, still.
Maltherion’s expression goes empty. “You think stubbornness is strength.”
I swallow blood. “I think you hit like a courtier.”
His hand closes around my throat.
Not enough to choke.
Enough to feel my pulse under his fingers.
The hollow in his chest opens wider, shadows stirring inside it like eels in black water. “I have consumed warlocks who bargained with plague gods. I have stripped bloodline magic from dynasties while their heirs screamed prayers into their own hands. I have eaten curse-cores older than your city. Do you truly believe breath counting will save you?”
“No,” I whisper.
His fingers tighten.
I meet his eyes. “I believe it will slow you down.”
Something impacts far away.
The whole pocket realm trembles.
