Page 3
“Fine,” I breathe, the word leaving me on a slow exhale. “You want to show me something? Then show me.”
I turn toward it.
Relief follows, immediate and infuriating. The pressure eases just enough to make movement feel possible again, guiding rather than forcing as I start walking.
The streets change as I follow it.
The noise softens, the chaos of the market giving way to broader avenues lined with taller buildings. The air grows cleaner, sharper, carrying less of the world’s rough edges and more of something controlled, curated.
Dark elf territory.
“Of course it is,” I mutter, because if something is going to drag me across the city, it might as well lead somewhere that ends badly.
The estate rises at the end of the street, all sharp angles and polished stone, imposing. The gates stand open, guards positioned with a stillness that speaks of discipline and power.
I slow, instinct tightening in my chest.
The pull does not.
It sharpens, directing me past the gates, through the courtyard, toward something deeper within the structure. I keep my head down as I approach, adjusting my grip on the bag in my hand to give myself something to focus on besides the rising tension under my skin.
The guards glance at me and look away.
Human. Harmless. Unimportant.
I walk past them without breaking stride.
The courtyard is unnaturally quiet, every element arranged with deliberate care. Stone paths wind through trimmed greenery, each plant shaped into compliance. Even the air feels controlled, as though nothing here is allowed to exist without purpose.
The pull drags me toward a row of tall windows along the main building.
My heartbeat picks up as I approach, the rhythm syncing with the rising heat beneath my skin. Each step feels heavier than the last, anticipation coiling tight enough to make my chest ache.
“This is a mistake,” I say quietly, even as I continue forward.
The thought carries no weight.
I reach the window.
At first, I see only my reflection staring back at me, gold faintly visible beneath lowered lids, the glamour holding just enough to keep the truth from breaking through.
Then I shift slightly.
The interior comes into view.
She sits at a desk near the far wall, head bent over a spread of parchment, one hand moving steadily across the page. The light catches in her hair, softening it. There is a stillness to her that does not read as passive. It feels deliberate, contained, like a force held in careful balance.
Something inside me tightens.
My breath slows without my permission, each inhale dragging deeper than it should, as though my body has decided that whatever exists beyond the glass is something it needs more of.
She pauses.
Her pen stills.
Slowly, she lifts her head.
Her gaze turns toward the window.
