The moment the heavy oak door of Vane's study slammed shut, the High Commander unraveled.
He didn't yell. He didn't throw anything. He simply leaned back against the door, his head tipped back against the wood, and let out a breath that sounded like a death rattle. The masterful mask of indifference he had worn in the Great Hall cracked and fell away, leaving behind a face contorted with raw, unadulterated rage.
Elian stood in the middle of the room, shivering. The adrenaline that had sustained him through the fight was crashing, leaving him cold and nauseous. His hand—the one Lysander had burned—was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, a hot, wet agony that radiated up to his elbow.
Vane pushed off the door. He crossed the room in three strides, grabbing Elian by the shoulders.
" Sit," Vane ordered. It wasn't a request.
He steered Elian toward the desk, pushing him down into the heavy leather chair. Elian sank into it, too tired to argue.
Vane reached out and tapped the silver choker on Elian's neck. "Release."
The collar clicked open. Vane ripped it off and hurled it across the room. It hit the stone wall with a violent clang and skittered into a corner.
"I hate that thing," Vane snarled, pacing toward the liquor cabinet. "I hate seeing it on you."
"It kept me alive," Elian rasped, rubbing his throat. The skin was red where the metal had chafed. "She would have heard me scream when he burned me."
Vane froze. His back was to Elian, his hand hovering over a bottle of brandy. He lowered his hand slowly.
"Show me," Vane said. His voice was terrifyingly quiet.
He turned around and walked back to the desk. He didn't look at Elian's face; he looked at his hand.
Elian hesitated, cradling his injured hand against his chest. "It's fine. Just a blister."
"Show me, Elian."
Elian slowly extended his hand.
Vane hissed through his teeth. It wasn't just a blister. The Prince's signet ring had been heated to a branding temperature. The skin on the back of Elian's hand was seared away in a perfect circle, weeping clear fluid and blood. The edges were angry and swollen.
Vane stared at the wound for a long time. The shadows in the room seemed to darken, responding to his mood. The air grew cold.
"I should have killed him," Vane whispered. "I should have drawn my sword and cut his hand off right there on the dais."
"And then we'd both be dead," Elian pointed out softly. "You did what you had to do. You threw me around to make it look real."
"I hurt you," Vane said, his eyes lifting to meet Elian's. There was no Wolf in his gaze now. Just a man consumed by guilt. "I promised to protect you, and I threw you across a room while that sadist laughed."
"I survived," Elian said. "I'm from the Wards, Vane. I've taken worse beatings for less coin."
Vane didn't look comforted. He turned and grabbed a first-aid kit from a shelf—the same one Elian had used on him the night before. He pulled out a jar of blue salve and a roll of clean linen.
He pulled the chair around the desk so he was sitting knee-to-knee with Elian. He took Elian's wrist gently, treating it like spun glass.
"This is frost-balm," Vane murmured, dipping his fingers into the jar. "It will sting, then it will numb."
He applied the salve. Elian hissed, his fingers twitching involuntarily. Vane didn't stop, but he murmured soft, nonsensical words of comfort under his breath—a stark contrast to the harsh commands he barked in the training arena.
As Vane worked, wrapping the hand in cool linen, Elian watched him. He saw the lines of exhaustion around Vane's eyes, the tension in his jaw.
"Seven days," Elian said into the silence.
Vane's hands paused while tying the knot. He didn't look up.
"She said the Rite is in seven days," Elian pressed. "And she said she needs a greater sacrifice. She means me, doesn't she?"
Vane finished the knot. He kept Elian's hand in his, resting it on his own knee.
"Yes," Vane admitted heavily. "Usually, the Rite involves the Prince channeling solar energy into the Grand Prism. It requires stamina, but it isn't fatal. But Lysander is empty. He has no reserves. If he tries to channel the Eclipse, the void will consume him."
"So she needs a battery," Elian concluded. "She's going to hook me up to that machine again. But this time, there won't be a regulator."
"She intends to drain you dry," Vane said, his voice devoid of hope. "She will use you as a conduit. The Eclipse requires a massive amount of solar energy to reseal the breach. She will pull every drop of light from your soul until there is nothing left but a husk."
Elian pulled his hand away. He felt cold all over. "So I'm a dead man walking."
"No," Vane said fiercely. He leaned forward, grabbing Elian's uninjured hand. "I won't let it happen."
"How can you stop it?" Elian laughed, a brittle sound. "You saw her. She's a monster. She eats magic. And you serve her."
"I serve the Realm," Vane corrected. "Not her."
He stood up and began to pace again, the energy in the room shifting from despair to calculation.
"Seven days is not a death sentence, Elian. It's a timeline. We have seven days to expose them."
"Expose them to who?" Elian asked. " The Council eats out of her hand."
"To the ancient laws," Vane said. He stopped by the bookshelf and pulled out the genealogy book he had been reading before. He slammed it onto the desk.
"The Law of Succession states that the Throne responds only to the blood of the Sun," Vane explained, flipping pages rapidly. "If Lysander is a fraud—if he has no solar blood—the Grand Prism will reject him. But we need proof. Irrefutable proof."
"My blood," Elian whispered, looking at his bandaged hand. "I'm the proof. That's why I have the magic."
"Exactly," Vane said. "But we can't just walk up to the Council and say, 'Hey, this street rat is the King.' They'd execute us for heresy. We need to find the swap. We need to find the midwife who delivered the babies twenty years ago."
"Twenty years ago?" Elian frowned. "That's a cold trail, Vane. She's probably dead."
"The Queen kills loose ends," Vane agreed. "But the Archives... the Archives never forget."
Vane looked at Elian. "Tomorrow, you are going to earn your keep as an 'archivist.' We are going down to the Deep Records. If there is a record of a second birth that night, or a midwife who suddenly vanished, it will be there."
Elian looked at the book, then at Vane. "And if we find it? What then?"
"Then," Vane said, a dark, dangerous smile curving his lips, "we start a revolution."
He walked back to Elian. The distance between them closed again. Vane reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Elian's eyes. The touch was lingering, almost tender.
"But tonight," Vane whispered, his voice dropping to that husky register that made Elian's toes curl, "you need to rest. You fought the Queen's champion and lived. That earns you a reprieve."
"I threw a plate at your head," Elian reminded him, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"You dented my greaves," Vane chuckled softly. "I was impressed."
Vane stepped back, the moment stretching thin but holding.
"Take the bed tonight," Vane said, gesturing to the large, plush mattress in the corner of the main room, not the cot in the panic room.
"What? No. That's your bed."
"I have work to do," Vane said, sitting down at the desk and pulling a stack of maps toward him. "I won't be sleeping. And the panic room... it's too quiet for you right now. I can see it in your eyes. You need to know I'm here."
Elian swallowed hard. Vane read him too well. He did need to know Vane was there. The thought of being locked in that soundproof box alone with his fear was terrifying.
"Thank you," Elian whispered.
He walked over to the bed. It was enormous, covered in furs and silk. He sat down, removing his boots with his good hand. He lay back, sinking into the pillows that smelled of sandalwood.
From the desk, the scratching of Vane's quill on parchment began—a rhythmic, comforting sound.
Elian watched Vane's back. The broad shoulders, the dark hair, the focus.
For the first time in his life, Elian wasn't sleeping with one eye open. He closed his eyes, the hum of magic in his chest settling into a steady, warm rhythm.
They had seven days. Seven days to overturn a kingdom. Seven days to stay alive.
And seven days to figure out why, every time Vane looked at him, Elian felt like he was the one burning up.