Silence, thick and heavy as wet wool, descended upon the infirmary in the wake of the snapped resonance. Elias Vance remained doubled over, braced against his knees, gasping for air that felt like shards of glass in his lungs. The phantom echo of Theron Blackwood's very being – his pain, his strength, his profound loneliness, and the terrifying, ancient heat of his core – still reverberated within Elias's own soul, leaving him feeling violated, exposed, and paradoxically, scorchingly alive. The forbidden symphony had ended, but its dissonant chords continued to thrum in his marrow.
He forced himself to straighten, his movements stiff, every muscle protesting. His gaze, wide with residual shock and dawning horror, snapped back to the stone slab. The transformation was nothing short of miraculous. Where moments ago, inky demon-rot had writhed like living shadow and flesh had been torn and necrotic, now lay only clean, healing wounds. The savage gash across Theron's ribs, the epicenter of the corruption and the subsequent explosion of power, was knitting together with unnatural, visible speed. Fresh, healthy pink tissue was rapidly replacing the angry, poisoned ruin. The jagged claw marks on his arm and thigh had stopped bleeding entirely, the edges sealed and beginning to scar. The unnatural pallor had vanished, replaced by a flush of robust health that seemed almost feverish, radiating the intense heat that still pulsed from him like the heart of a forge.
Brother Anselm let out a choked sob of pure relief. "Praise the Light! A miracle! A true miracle!" He moved forward, trembling hands hovering over the healing wounds, his own soft light now easily soothing the remaining inflammation. Other healers murmured prayers of thanks, their faces etched with awe as they witnessed the impossible speed of recovery. "Cardinal Vance… your power… it is truly blessed this night. You have snatched him from the Abyss itself!"
Their reverence felt like salt rubbed into an open wound. Blessed? Elias thought wildly, a hysterical edge creeping into his internal monologue. If they only knew. If they only felt what I felt… saw what I saw. His hands, hidden within the voluminous sleeves of his crimson robes, clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. The lingering warmth in his own core, the echo of Theron's dragon fire, felt like a brand of heresy.
It was then that Theron stirred.
Not the violent arching of before, but a deep, shuddering breath that lifted his powerful chest. A low groan rumbled in his throat, rough and raw. His head turned slowly on the sweat-dampened padding beneath it, dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks. The flush of unnatural vitality deepened.
Elias froze, his breath catching. No. Not yet. Not now. He wasn't ready. He couldn't face those eyes again, not with the secret screaming in his mind, not with the phantom resonance still vibrating through his being.
But Theron's eyes opened.
They weren't the cool, assessing grey Elias vaguely remembered from council meetings, nor were they the blazing, unfocused inferno of molten gold from moments ago. They were a deep, intense amber, like sunlight trapped in aged whiskey. But within that rich, luminous color, the pupils remained unnervingly distinct – vertical slits, sharp and predatory, cutting through the golden haze like shards of obsidian. They weren't fully dilated as before, but they were undeniably, terrifyingly draconic.
Those eyes, holding the ancient, alien awareness of a predator, swept the room with a sluggish, disoriented intensity. They passed over the awed faces of the healers, over Brother Anselm's relieved countenance, and then… they locked onto Elias.
Time stopped.
Elias felt the impact like a physical blow to the chest. The vertical pupils seemed to pierce through his Cardinal's robes, his carefully constructed composure, straight into the heart of the secret he now carried. There was no recognition of rank or place in that gaze, only a primal, unsettling focus. It was the gaze of a creature that had sensed something fundamental, something that resonated with its own core. Elias saw confusion in those golden depths, the fog of injury and the disorientation of violent awakening, but beneath it, a dawning, visceral awareness of the connection that had just saved his life – and bound them together.
The air crackled with unspoken tension. It wasn't just shock or fear Elias felt radiating between them; it was a raw, magnetic attraction. Not physical, though the Commander's presence was undeniably potent, even broken on a slab. This was deeper, more terrifying. It was the pull of two powerful, discordant frequencies that had momentarily achieved perfect, forbidden harmony. It was the soul-deep recognition that had occurred in the crucible of resonance. Elias's Resonant Light hummed faintly in response, a traitorous vibration beneath his skin. He felt utterly transparent, laid bare before that ancient, golden stare.
Theron's lips parted, perhaps to speak, perhaps to question the strange Cardinal standing rigidly before him, the man whose presence seemed to ignite an unsettling echo within his own blood. But no sound emerged. The immense effort of awakening, of containing the briefly roused dragon fire within his healing body, proved too much. The fierce intelligence in those extraordinary eyes dimmed, clouded by overwhelming exhaustion. The vertical slits softened, blurred, though the rich amber color remained unnervingly vivid. His eyelids fluttered, heavy as lead, and closed. His head lolled back onto the padding, his breathing deepening into the rhythm of true, healing sleep. The oppressive heat radiating from him seemed to settle, becoming a steady, contained warmth rather than a raging inferno.
The spell broke. The infirmary exhaled a collective breath Elias hadn't realized they were all holding. Brother Anselm rushed forward, checking Theron's pulse, murmuring prayers of thanks for the peaceful rest. "He's stable. Truly stable. The Light be praised, and you, Your Eminence. Your gift… it's beyond anything I've witnessed."
Elias didn't hear the praise. He was staring at Theron's face, now relaxed in unconsciousness, the terrifying vertical pupils hidden, but the knowledge of them seared into Elias's mind. The evidence was irrefutable, witnessed in the stark clarity of wakefulness, not just the heat of crisis. Dragonborn. The word echoed in the hollow space left by the receding resonance, a death sentence wrapped in ancient legend and Church doctrine. Theron Blackwood, the Church's indomitable Sword, its paragon of martial virtue, carried the blood of creatures considered myths at best, dangerous abominations at worst. Creatures whose power predated the Light's doctrine, whose very existence was a challenge to the Church's absolute authority.
And Elias Vance, Cardinal of the Holy Light, held the proof. Not just in his mind, but etched onto his soul by that terrifying resonance. He felt the lingering warmth of the dragon fire within himself, a phantom ember that both terrified and fascinated him. He felt the silent thrum of the connection, a taut, invisible wire strung between his core and Theron's slumbering form.
He was alone. Utterly alone. Surrounded by relieved healers praising a miracle born of heresy, standing over the living embodiment of a secret that could shatter the Church and destroy them both. The weight of it pressed down on him, heavier than his robes, colder than the marble floor beneath his feet. The scent of blood and herbs was suddenly suffocating. He needed air. He needed silence. He needed to be anywhere but here, trapped with the knowledge and the lingering, unsettling pull towards the man who was now his greatest danger… and, impossibly, the other half of a harmony that defied all reason.
Without a word, ignoring Brother Anselm's concerned look, Elias turned and walked stiffly from the infirmary. His steps were measured, the picture of composed dignity, but inside, he was reeling. The grand corridors of the Grand Cathedral, once a sanctuary, now felt like a gilded cage. Every echoing footstep sounded like the approach of doom. He had saved Theron Blackwood's life. And in doing so, he had bound himself to a secret more volatile than any demon, and to a connection that whispered of a destiny far darker, and far more perilously alluring, than any he had ever imagined. The dragon's secret was out, known only to him, and it burned in his soul like forbidden fire.