Nitron Vale sat alone in his study.
The room was dim, lit by a single lantern on his desk. Its light flickered over maps of the empire, old scrolls of magic theory, and the glass of wine in his hand. He hadn't touched the wine. His silver eyes, always cold, seemed sharper tonight.
A guard knelt at the door, helmet pressed to the floor. "No sign of unrest, my lord. The manor is secure."
"Is it?" Nitron murmured.
The guard stiffened but didn't respond. Nitron waved him away, and the door shut with a soft thud.
Nitron leaned back in his chair, fingers curling around the stem of his glass. It was shaking. Not from fear—he didn't fear his consort, not truly—but something about that shard pulsing through Elma unsettled him. He'd seen power before. This was… different.
He turned to the old sorcerer standing by the bookshelf. "If I can't control her, I'll take her apart and see what's inside."
The sorcerer bowed slightly. "We'll prepare the rites."
Nitron's gaze darkened. "Good. Tonight, she proves loyalty—or she dies."
Elma sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her hands.
The shard's hum had changed since the garden. It wasn't a faint whisper anymore; it was a steady thrum that matched her pulse. When she flexed her fingers, light flickered under her skin—sigils etched faintly along her collarbone like veins made of glass.
"You're getting worse."
Elma turned her head. Calista was leaning against the doorframe, robe loose around her shoulders, eyes sharp despite the softness of her voice.
"Or better," Elma said.
Calista crossed the room, kneeling in front of her. She touched Elma's collarbone lightly, where the leash's burn had left angry red marks. The glow from the shard made Calista's hand look pale, ethereal.
"This power isn't yours," Calista whispered.
"Maybe not," Elma said. "But I'm going to use it anyway."
Calista's jaw tightened. She dipped a cloth in a bowl of water and gently pressed it to the burns. Elma hissed softly but didn't pull back.
"You think he'll let us live if we do nothing?" Elma murmured.
"No," Calista admitted. Her hand lingered on Elma's shoulder. "That's why I'm not stopping you."
Their eyes met. The air between them felt fragile, like a candle flame about to be snuffed out.
Then a knock at the door shattered the moment.
"Summons from Lord Vale," a guard's voice called. "Both of you. Midnight banquet."
Elma's lips curled into a smirk. "He's rattled."
Calista stood, tying her robe tighter. "Or he's setting a trap."
"Either way," Elma said, standing to her full height, "it's our move now."
The guard left. Silence settled over the chamber.
Elma slipped the shard back under her sleeve. It pulsed violently against her skin, sending heat through her veins. She almost staggered.
"Elma?"
"I'm fine," she said through gritted teeth.
The whisper slid into her mind, clear as speech: Tonight.
Her breath caught. She met Calista's eyes, and for a moment, she saw the same realization there: something was coming.
The leash around her throat burned suddenly, hard enough to make her knees buckle. But it wasn't as strong as before. Nitron's hold was slipping.
Elma straightened, grinning despite the pain.
"For the first time," she whispered, "I don't feel like prey."
The shard pulsed again. The lantern flickered. And somewhere deep in the manor, a bell began to toll.