The door locked with a heavy, mechanical thunk that echoed with finality.
Elian pressed his back against the wood, his chest heaving. The room Vane had dragged him into was a stark contrast to the suffocating opulence of the rest of the Palace. There was no white marble here, no gold leaf filigree. The walls were lined with dark oak bookshelves, packed floor-to-ceiling with leather-bound tomes, scrolls, and navigation charts. A massive desk made of black ironwood dominated the center, covered in reports. Weapons—swords, daggers, and a heavy crossbow—hung on the walls, not as decorations, but as tools ready for use.
It smelled of old paper, gun oil, and that ubiquitous sandalwood scent that seemed to cling to Vane's skin.
Vane stood by the desk, his back to Elian. He had poured a glass of whiskey but hadn't drunk it. He was gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles were white.
"You're bleeding," Elian said.
The silence of the room shattered. Elian hadn't meant to speak, but the healer in him bypassed his fear. He could smell it—the copper tang of fresh blood cutting through the scent of whiskey.
Vane stiffened. "It is nothing. A scratch."
"It's not a scratch," Elian insisted, pushing himself off the door. He walked cautiously toward the desk. "You took a shard of the Siphon to the shoulder. I saw it."
Vane spun around, his eyes flashing with a warning glare. "I said, it is nothing. Sit down, Elian. Don't speak."
But Elian didn't sit. He looked at the Commander's left shoulder. The obsidian pauldrons of his armor were cracked, and dark blood was seeping into the black fabric of the under-tunic.
"You're the High Commander," Elian said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his legs. "If you pass out from blood loss, who protects me from the Prince?"
Vane paused. The logic landed. He let out a frustrated hiss through his teeth and set the glass down.
"Fine," he growled. "Fix it. But be quick."
Vane reached up and unclasped the heavy chest plate. It fell to the floor with a deafening clang. Next came the cracked pauldron, peeling away to reveal the shirt beneath, which was soaked sticky and red.
He sat on the edge of the desk, wincing slightly as he pulled the tunic off his shoulder.
Elian sucked in a breath. The wound was deep. A jagged piece of crystal, glowing faintly with the residual energy of the explosion, was embedded in the muscle of Vane's deltoid. The skin around it was angry and blistered from the heat.
"I need water," Elian said, rolling up the sleeves of his silk tunic. "And a knife. And whiskey."
Vane gestured to a basin on a side table and slid a wicked-looking dagger across the desk. "Do not make me regret handing you a weapon."
Elian ignored the threat. He washed his hands quickly, then poured whiskey over the blade to sterilize it. He walked up to Vane, stepping between the Commander's spread knees to get a better angle.
The proximity was sudden and overwhelming. Elian was standing so close his thigh brushed against Vane's knee. Vane was watching him, his grey eyes dark and heavy-lidded, tracking every movement.
"This is going to hurt," Elian warned.
"Just do it," Vane grunted.
Elian placed one hand on Vane's good shoulder to steady him. His skin was burning hot. With the other hand, he brought the knife down. He worked with the swift, brutal efficiency of a slum doctor. He widened the wound slightly, dug the tip of the blade in, and levered the crystal shard out.
Vane didn't scream. He didn't even gasp. His entire body went rigid, corded muscles standing out in his neck, and he let out a low, animalistic growl deep in his chest.
Elian dropped the bloody shard onto the desk. "It's out."
"Now close it," Vane breathed, sweat beading on his forehead.
Elian hesitated. Usually, he would stitch this. But he didn't have a needle. He looked at his hands. He had something better.
"I'm going to use magic," Elian said softly. "Don't kill me."
Vane looked up, his eyes searching Elian's face. "Do it."
Elian hovered his hand over the bleeding wound. He closed his eyes, searching for that hum in his chest. It was chaotic now, stirred up by the Siphon, angry and wild. He had to soothe it. He had to gentle it.
Heal, he thought. Not burn. Mend.
A soft, warm glow radiated from his palm. It wasn't the blinding explosion of the marketplace. It was the gentle, golden light of a late afternoon sun.
Vane watched, mesmerized. He felt the heat seep into his shoulder, but it didn't burn. It felt like sinking into a hot bath after a week in the snow. It felt like life. He watched the skin knit together, the angry red fading to pink, then to a faint white scar.
Elian opened his eyes. The wound was gone.
He pulled his hand back, but Vane caught his wrist.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Vane's grip was loose, his thumb tracing the veins on the inside of Elian's wrist.
"Your magic," Vane murmured, his voice low and rough with pain and... something else. "It doesn't feel like theirs. The Mages of the Court... their power is cold. Mathematical. Yours..."
"Mine is wild," Elian finished, trying to pull his hand away.
"Yours is alive," Vane corrected. He didn't let go. He pulled Elian a fraction of an inch closer. "Who taught you?"
"No one," Elian whispered. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure Vane could feel it through his wrist. "I just... had it. Since I was a baby. My mother said I was born during a sun-storm."
Vane studied him. The skepticism was there, but it was eroding. "A sun-storm. Rare. But not impossible."
He finally released Elian's wrist. The absence of his touch left Elian's skin feeling cold.
Vane stood up, testing his shoulder. He rotated his arm. Perfect movement. He picked up his shirt, wincing as he pulled the bloody fabric back on.
"You have earned your keep for the night, Scavenger," Vane said, his tone shifting back to the professional mask of the Commander. "But do not think this buys your freedom."
He walked over to a large bookshelf and pulled on a hidden lever disguised as a book spine. A section of the shelf clicked and swung open, revealing a small, hidden alcove with a narrow cot.
"The Prince will have spies watching the main door," Vane explained. "You will sleep in the panic room. It is soundproof and reinforced with lead. Scrying spells cannot penetrate it."
Elian looked at the dark, closet-sized space. "It looks like a cell."
"It's a safe," Vane corrected. "And right now, you are the most valuable currency in the kingdom."
Elian walked toward the alcove, but he paused at the desk. Amidst the scattered papers and the bloody crystal shard, there was a book that Vane had been reading before he left to fetch Elian. It was open.
Elian glanced at the page. It was an old genealogy text, filled with family trees. The page was titled The Line of Sol.
His eyes caught a name near the bottom, heavily underlined in black ink.
Prince Lysander III - Born during the Great Eclipse.
And next to it, a note scribbled in Vane's handwriting: Anomaly. Solar readings inconsistent with birth charts.
Elian looked up. Vane was watching him read.
"You knew," Elian whispered. "You knew he was weak before you brought me here."
"I suspected," Vane said, crossing his arms. "The Royal family hides their secrets well. But I am the Shadow. I see what is hidden in the dark."
"And what else do you see?" Elian asked, gesturing to the book. "What about the other babies born that night?"
Vane's face went blank. "There were no other babies recorded in the Palace that night."
"I wasn't born in the Palace," Elian said. "I was born in the gutter."
"Then you are a statistical impossibility," Vane said coldly. "Go to sleep, Elian. We have a long day tomorrow."
Elian didn't move for a second. He wanted to ask more. He wanted to ask why Vane, a man who seemingly served the throne with ruthless efficiency, was keeping notes on the Prince's weakness. Was Vane loyal? Or was he planning a coup?
And if he was planning a coup... was Elian his partner, or his sacrifice?
Elian walked into the panic room. "You should lock the door," he said, looking back at Vane. "I might try to kill you in your sleep."
Vane smirked. It was the first genuine expression Elian had seen on him all night.
"You won't," Vane said softly. "You healed me. You had a knife in your hand and a pulse under your thumb, and you healed me."
Vane stepped forward and closed the hidden door.
"Goodnight, little spark."
The darkness swallowed Elian whole.