Thalmyr studies her for a long moment, calculation flickering behind his gaze. Then he exhales. “There is one thing weakening her,” he says.
Elyssara’s attention sharpens instantly.
“What?” she demands.
“The blood ritual,” he replies. “It was created as a connection between us, so I could siphon magic from her after I’d exiled the gods into the echo-plane. Of course, Daphinia disrupted the spell, bound her to this plane. But… a portion of her power still flows to me.”
The room stills. Elyssara’s pulse stutters.
“And you need it,” he continues, his gaze locking onto hers with unwavering certainty.
The weight of that settles quickly. Too quickly.
“Why?” she asks, skepticism thick in her tone.
Thalmyr does not hesitate.
“Because whilst I may siphon from her… she siphons from the other eight exiled gods. You need to weaken her in any way you can,” he presses.
That’s when Elyssara realizes—he’s not including himself in this plan. There is nowe. Nous.
“How?” she demands.
“You bind yourself to me with the blood spell,” he says. “You siphon from Nyrielle… and me.”
A heartbeat passes.
The silence swells.
“Then you kill me.”
The room does not erupt. It implodes—every breath held, every instinct screaming at what has just been offered.
The words do not echo. They do not need to. They settle into the room like something inevitable. Something that has always been coming, whether any of them were ready for it or not.
Seren’s breath catches behind her.
Ronyn goes still.
Jax’s jaw tightens, something unreadable flickering across her face.
Teddy nods, as if he recognizes his own sacrifice and duty in another.
Elyssara does not move. Does not speak. She simply stares at him. At the man who destroyed her life. At the king who sacrificed her people. At the man who is now offering himself as the final piece she needs to end what he helped create.
“Convenient,” Jax scoffs. “How do we know you’re not just going to bind to Elyssara and siphon fromher? Because this all sounds very beneficial foryou.”
She’s not wrong—it could be a trap.
“What assurances do we have that this is not some ploy?” Teddy growls. “Perhaps you and Nyrielle are still lovers and you’re simply following in your family’s footsteps.”
Also not wrong.
Fuck.
Thalmyr sighs in exasperation. “My family raised me for greed and power. You have every right to question my motives. But I’ve seen unchecked power in Nyrielle. I will not become that. Not again. I will not damn all of Aevryn,” he asserts, voice firmer this time, his words booming through the throne room.
He’s always known how to sell lies—so how does one discern the truth?
