He was watching me with a scholar's curiosity. As if I were a creature in a lab. Not Selene Eryndell Veylith. Not an Arcanist Mage. Just another sample.
"You know," he said, voice oily, "the fascinating thing about you is not just your bloodline... it's your restraint. Your discipline. It's adorable."
I didn't answer. Silence was my only defense now.
"If I were you," he said as he traced the outer edge of the circle with a silver rod, "I'd be screaming. Crying. Maybe praying. But here you are—glaring at me like I'm the one who's chained. Bold."
I bit the inside of my cheek. I wasn't bold. I was terrified.
I just didn't give him the satisfaction.
"Why do you want Mytheia?" I asked, low.
"Ah, so she speaks." His smirk widened. "What do you think? Because it's shiny? Because I'm bored?"
"No," I said. "Because you need it to finish something. A ritual? A weapon? Or someone gave you orders you can't refuse."
He paused for a moment, then clicked his tongue.
