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I cross the corridor fast and press my hand against the lock.

The wards bite immediately.

Pain shoots through my palm and up my arm, cold first, then burning. The lock tries to classify me, reject me, define me as contaminant and hostile entity and unlawful intrusion. I let it speak.

Then I pull.

The magic resists with a shriek like metal dragged over teeth. Smoke curls from the iron bands lining the corridor as I drag the ward-energy into myself strand by strand. It pours into my chest tasting of iron filings and command, trying to swell the hunger into something blind.

I refuse it that shape.

The last lock gutters and dies beneath my hand.

The door opens.

Isolde stands inside the confinement room.

Of course she is standing.

She waits in the center of the ward circle with her shoulders straight and her hands relaxed at her sides, though red marks darken both wrists. One loose strand of dark hair has escaped her braid and fallen across her cheek. The confinement room reeks of iron-heavy warding, but her gaze fixes on mine with steady focus instead of panic.

She does not rush toward me.

Instead, she inhales slowly.

In.

Hold.

Out.

The bond catches the rhythm immediately, smoothing the sharpest edges off the infernal heat clawing through my chest.

“Nice room,” I say, my voice rough despite the attempt at humor. I glance around at the bare walls and silver ward circle. “Bit cozy. Terrible air. Very Vaerith.”

The corner of her mouth lifts faintly. “I was about to leave a poor review.”

My eyes drop to the bruised marks circling her wrists.

The sight hits harder than the wards did.

“Did he hurt you?” I ask quietly.

“Yes,” she answers with infuriating honesty.

Heat rolls across my shoulders hard enough to make the corridor wards pulse red. Isolde notices immediately. She lifts two fingers and taps lightly against her own sternum, her expression sharpening.

“Corin,” she says in that cool, measured tone she uses when she is trying to stop me from becoming catastrophic infrastructure damage.

I force air slowly through my lungs.

“Where?” I ask.

“Wrists. Throat. Pride, if we’re being generous.”

“I’m not feeling generous.”

“That is extremely visible.”