The smell of burnt thread lingered in Arielle's lungs long after the storm faded. It clung to the back of her throat like smoke, bitter and metallic, no matter how many times she swallowed.
She was back in the safehouse now — Selene's, not the Conclave's — her body draped across a thread-lined cot while pale light filtered through the rune-stained windows. The sigils scorched into her skin still glowed faintly, their heat dulled to a throbbing ache. Every time she blinked, she swore she saw faint afterimages, threads of light dangling in the corners of her vision.
Not just dangling. Moving.
Arielle sat up, the cot creaking under her weight, and stared at her forearms. For a moment, the black markings beneath her skin writhed, forming intricate, spidery sigils that weren't hers. The hum in her chest deepened, resonating at a pitch she'd never felt before — lower, heavier, almost like it wasn't coming from inside her anymore but from somewhere beyond.
Then Selene's voice broke through, soft but steady. "Stop staring at them. That only feeds it."
Arielle startled, looking up. Selene stood near the door, the shadows cutting sharp angles across their face. Their silver eyes were dimmer than usual, ringed by exhaustion, and their right hand trembled faintly as it rested on their needle.
"You've been standing there long?" Arielle asked. Her voice came out rough, scraped raw by more than just the storm.
"Long enough," Selene said, stepping closer. "The sigils will fade. Eventually. If you don't anchor again for a while."
Arielle let out a short, humorless laugh. "Right. Like that's an option." She pressed a palm to her ribs. The hum was quieter than it had been during the storm but louder than it used to be — a constant reminder that the bonds she'd anchored were still there, coiled tight inside her like living wire. "It doesn't want to fade. None of it does."
Selene crouched beside the cot, their eyes scanning her arms. "I can reinforce your weave. Lock some of it down. It won't stop the hum, but it'll make the burn manageable."
"Manageable," Arielle repeated, a bitter edge to the word. "Until the next surge. Or the next tether bloom. Or the next time the Conclave decides I'm too much of a risk to keep breathing."
Selene's gaze flicked to hers. "They won't—"
"They already called me a liability." Arielle's voice sharpened. "I heard them, Selene. They think I'm one bad surge away from turning into him. And maybe they're right."
The hum pulsed as if in agreement, a deep thrum beneath her sternum.
Selene's jaw tightened, their hand resting briefly on her wrist — warm despite their weariness. "You're not Draven. You're holding the bonds because no one else can. Because you refuse to let them break. That's not the same as feeding on them."
"Isn't it?" Arielle muttered, glancing at the faintly glowing veins on her arms. "Every day I can feel it getting… easier. The hum doesn't crush me as much. It feels like it's part of me now. Like I'm part of it."
For a long moment, Selene didn't answer. Then they said, quietly, "That's what worries me."
Before Arielle could respond, the door creaked open. Two Conclave envoys stepped inside — both clad in the stark white of the Inner Circle, their thread-marks pristine, their expressions unreadable. The one in front, a tall woman with hair braided tight against her scalp, inclined her head curtly.
"Selene. Anchor," she said, her voice clipped. "The Conclave has convened. Effective immediately, Arielle Caden must be transported to the White Spire for containment and evaluation."
Arielle felt her stomach drop. "Containment?"
The envoy's eyes flicked to her, cold and assessing. "Your resonance is unstable. You drew in more threads during the storm than any Anchor has in recorded history. The Conclave believes the tether is… influencing you. Until we can confirm otherwise, you will remain confined."
"Confined," Arielle echoed. The word sat heavy in her mouth. Not executed. Not exiled. But not free.
Selene rose slowly, their silver eyes hardening. "She's still recovering. Moving her now could destabilize the anchored bonds and trigger another surge."
The envoy's expression didn't shift. "The decision is final. The Spire has the means to suppress the hum. The longer she remains outside their wards, the greater the risk to the weave."
Arielle's fists clenched, nails biting into her palms. "And if I refuse?"
The envoy's gaze sharpened. "Then the Conclave will consider you compromised. And act accordingly."
For a moment, no one spoke. The hum in Arielle's chest pulsed louder, echoing faintly through the rune-lined walls like a distant drumbeat.
Finally, Selene said, their voice low, "Give us until dawn. She's barely conscious as it is."
The envoy hesitated, then inclined her head once. "Dawn. No later." The two turned and left, the door shutting behind them with a dull thud.
Silence stretched in their wake, heavy and suffocating. Arielle stared at the faint glow of her sigils, the hum still thrumming beneath her ribs.
"They're not taking me there to 'contain' me," she said finally, her voice flat. "They're afraid I'm going to turn. And if I do, they won't lock me up. They'll put me down."
Selene didn't deny it.