Niegal was close to dozing off when the sanctum door slammed open.
The heavy iron groaned against the stone, and the scent of blood and seawater rushed in with the cold night air. The mug of rum slipped from his fingers and thudded softly against the floor, spilling the last of its contents across the table.
He was instantly sober.
A cloaked figure entered the room, boots echoing with each step against the stone floor. In their arms was a woman—limp, unconscious, and visibly wounded. Blood painted her split lip, bruises bloomed across her knuckles and knees, and the strange, telltale shimmer of mana burn ghosted her skin.
As the figure stepped under the glow of the green healing lamps, the hood fell away.
It was the Behike.
And the woman in their arms—
"Elena," Niegal breathed, startled at the memory that rushed forward like a tide. He hadn't seen her in years—not since before the estate changed hands, before Seamus rose to power. She looked older now. Weathered. Tired. But alive.
He stood abruptly and began clearing the healing slab.
"A fresh blanket," he muttered to himself, reaching for one of the sterilized rolls nearby. "Lay her down gently. I've got it."
The Behike obeyed, no words exchanged. Niegal's hands hovered over Elena, green light blooming between his palms. His touch was firm but reverent.
"She's out of mana," he said in a low voice, almost reverent in its weight.
"She killed four Inquisition agents before collapsing," the Behike replied.
Niegal's expression darkened, but he said nothing. The light intensified from his hands, floating in threads like glowing pollen, sealing wounds, knitting skin, calming the tremble in her muscles.
And still, the Behike watched.
"What is it?" Niegal asked at last, whispering as if the air itself might shatter.
The Behike's grin was sharp, ancient.
"It is time for your nephew to realize his destiny."
Niegal froze.
"When you are done," the Behike continued, "you must leave. At least until Seamus comes for her."
Niegal clenched his jaw, his eyes flickering back to the still form of Elena. He remembered the last time he'd walked away. The years that passed. The silence. The war that came after.
Leave her alone again?
He sighed, the ache deep and heavy.
Just a fool of a man, that's all he was.