Page 52 of Saving Her Dragon

The memories didn't simply bleed back into his mind like a gentle stream. They slammed into his skull like a battering ram, a rapid-fire succession of fast, violent flashes that tore away the last barriers protecting the memory.

Garrett saw the sterile, white floor of a subterranean laboratory. The lights flickered, casting long, monstrous shadows against the concrete walls that seemed to skitter and stop, then skitter again with a creepy, disjointed rhythm. Standing directly over him was the silhouette he had spent years trying to forget– the Demon Lord of Envy.

The creature's form seemed to warp the very air around it, a shifting mass of dark, oily smoke coalescing into a tall, terrifyingly elegant figure. Its eyes were two burning pinpricks of cold, emerald fire, and its skin had the pale, iridescent sheen of rotten wood.

A long, slender hand with nails like black glass pressed hard against Garrett's forehead.

The Demon Lord spoke words Garrett couldn't understand at the time. Its voice was a low, rhythmic, multi-tonal chant that sounded like stones grinding together in a deep chasm. Garrett remembered the agonizing physical sensation of his own consciousness being violently compressed, squeezed like a handful of sand, and pushed deep behind a heavy, invisible wall. Inside him, Han fought with everything he had, tearing at the internal structures of their shared soul, while Garrett screamed until his throat bled.

Then came the sound of a massive stone door slamming shut in the dark.

The Demon Lord leaned down. His emerald eyes flashed with a sickening, amused triumph as he whispered a final command, “Sleep well, Dragon.”

The vision shattered. Garrett’s back slammed against the wall, his breath hitching as the sunny Texas morning rushed back into his eyes. The realization hit him with a cold, devastating precision. It wasn't structural neurological damage. It wasn't an accidental psychological fracture caused by the trauma of his captivity.

It was entirely deliberate.

Lifting his head, Garrett locked his gaze onto Ginnie with a fierce, terrifying intensity. "You were wrong."

She went pale, her hands dropping to her sides. "About what, Garrett?"

"It isn't residual," Garrett choked out, his voice raw. Looking around the circle of his family, his knuckles turned white as his hands clenched into tight fists. "It's not old scar tissue or a dormant piece of enemy spellwork. He put it there."

Nobody in the quiet bedroom needed to ask who he was. The primeval, heavy malice vibrating through the air told the story for them.

Not everyone agreed.

Stepping into his space anyway, her jaw set, Sydney needed the true parameters of the threat spoken aloud. "Who, Garrett?" she demanded, her voice tight. "Name him."

Garrett’s eyes met hers. "Leviathan."

The name broke something loose inside Han. Not another complete memory. A sensation. Darkness.

Garrett trapped behind stone. Han clawing desperately from the other side. And somewhere beyond them both...

Leviathan.

Not a memory. Not an echo. Present. Garrett's stomach dropped. “He's still connected to me.”

The moment Garrett spoke Leviathan's name aloud, everything changed.

The security monitors on the headboard didn't just spike; they exploded into a frantic, high-pitched alarm. The digital readouts scrambled, the blue indicator lights turning into a solid, blinding red.

It wasn't 3:42 AM. The sun was streaming through the windows. It was broad daylight, and Garrett was very wide awake.

Inside his soul, Han let out a sudden, deafening war cry that vibrated through his ribs. “Lad! The circle!”

Garrett went rigid, his eyes widening in pure horror as he looked inward.

The weak lavender-white pulse of Garrett's Magic ignited into a hard, blinding flame.

Five lights.

Five stones.

None remained dark.

Deep within his mind, the heavy stone door swung wide open.