Days bled into one another, each a perfect, suffocating replica of the last. My world was the opulent suite, the crackling fire, the silent meals delivered by a disembodied hand. Helga was a ghost who appeared at dawn and dusk, her presence marked by the rustle of her dress and the scent of dried herbs. She never spoke unless necessary, her face a mask of professional duty. It was a sterile, silent, lonely existence designed to soften me up, to make me pliable.
My instructors at the Conclave had prepared me for this. For isolation. Your mind is your final fortress, Master Valerius used to say, his voice like the scrape of steel on stone. They can cage your body, but they cannot chain your thoughts unless you allow it. So, I spent the hours reinforcing my mental walls, reciting lessons, analyzing the layout of my rooms, and cataloging every detail I could glean from my single window. I would not break. I would not unravel.
On the fourth day, the routine shattered. Helga arrived with my morning meal and a different gown—a simple, practical dress of dark grey wool.
"The King requires your presence," she said, her voice flat. "In the Great Library."
Fear, a cold and familiar snake, uncoiled in my belly. The study was beginning.
The walk to the library was as silent and tense as the first journey to the throne room. The Great Library was in the western spire of the keep, a place of profound silence and shadow. The room was circular, its walls lined from floor to ceiling with thousands of leather-bound books. A massive, ornate table dominated the center of the room, covered in star charts, maps, and strange metallic instruments I didn't recognize. The air smelled of old paper, leather, and beeswax. It was the scent of knowledge, of history. Of power of a different kind.
King Jorvik stood with his back to me, gazing out a tall, arched window at the snow-swept peaks beyond. He wore no armor, just a simple black tunic and trousers that did nothing to hide the lean, predatory strength of his build. He did not turn as I entered, yet I knew he was aware of my every breath.
"Come here," he commanded, his voice calm.
I hesitated for only a second before obeying, stopping a respectful distance away. Beside him, standing ramrod straight, was one of the guards from the throne room—the same one who had grunted the order not to leave my rooms. His face was a mask of stoicism, but I could see the tension in his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders. He was deeply uncomfortable.
Jorvik finally turned his winter-blue eyes on me. "I wish to observe the effect."
"The effect?" I asked, my voice coming out as a dry whisper.
"Of you," he stated simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He gestured to the guard. "This is Fendrel. He is bound to a mate in the lower keep. A strong bond. One of the strongest in my guard."
Fendrel's jaw tightened at the mention of his mate, a flicker of pride and possession in his eyes.
"Walk toward him," Jorvik ordered me.
I did, my heart beginning to hammer. As I got closer, I saw Fendrel's nostrils flare. His eyes narrowed, a low, guttural growl rumbling in his chest. It wasn't a sound of aggression toward me, but of confusion. Of instinct gone wrong. I was an error in his primal code. I had no scent, I registered as no threat, yet my presence was a violation.
"Stop," Jorvik commanded when I was an arm's length away. He watched Fendrel, his expression one of intense, clinical focus. "Tell me, Fendrel, what do you feel?"
The guard swallowed hard. "It is... wrong, my King. It feels like a void. A silence where there should be… something. It makes the wolf restless."
Jorvik nodded slowly, a thoughtful, calculating look on his face. "As I thought." His gaze then pinned me in place. "Now. Touch him."
Ice flooded my veins. This was the test. A demonstration. A violation. Fendrel's eyes widened slightly in alarm. To touch another Lycan without permission, without the proper ritual of pack and status, was an intimate and often aggressive act. For a Null to do so… it was unthinkable.
"I will not," I said, the words tasting of ash.
Jorvik's expression did not change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "That was not a request. My guard is sworn to me. He will not harm you. You, however, will do as you are told."
It was a battle of wills I could not win. Defiance now would only lead to a harsher punishment later. My survival depended on a careful dance of compliance and resistance. Trembling with a mixture of fear and self-loathing, I slowly raised my hand. Fendrel stood his ground, a statue of loyalty, but I could see the sweat beading on his temple.
My fingers, cold and pale, made contact with the warm, living flesh of his forearm.
The effect was instantaneous. Fendrel flinched as if burned, a sharp hiss escaping his lips. A tremor ran through his powerful body. The color drained from his face, and his eyes—his eyes were the worst. They lost their focus, filled with a sudden, panicked confusion, as if he'd forgotten where he was.
A cold, draining sensation flowed through me, the familiar feeling of my power at work. It was like a syphon, pulling not at his life force, but at the intangible threads of his connection. I could feel it—a warm, golden cord deep within him that pulsed with life. My touch was making it flicker, dimming its light, icing it over.
"Enough," Jorvik's voice cut through the haze.
I snatched my hand back as if his arm were hot iron. Fendrel stumbled back a step, gasping for air. He clutched his chest, his eyes wide with a terror that went beyond any physical threat.
"My mate…" he whispered, his voice choked. "For a second… I could not feel her."
Jorvik completely ignored his guard's distress. His focus was entirely on me, his gaze sharp and penetrating. "And you? What did you feel?"
I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stop the shaking. "It was cold," I said, my voice thin. "It felt… hollow."
"Describe the hollowness," he pressed, taking a step closer. "Is it an emptiness? A silence? A severance?"
He was dissecting the moment, cataloging my feelings and Fendrel's reaction with the same unnerving detachment. He was not a king in that moment, but a physician studying a plague. My plague.
Fendrel, recovering his composure, bowed stiffly. "My King."
"You are dismissed, Fendrel. Send your mate my regards," Jorvik said, the words holding a casual cruelty that made my skin crawl. The guard shot me a look of pure, unadulterated fear before practically fleeing the library.
Jorvik turned his full attention back to me, his eyes gleaming with intellectual hunger. He saw the tremor in my hands, the horror on my face. It did not move him.
"You are a fascinating creature, Elysia," he murmured, using my name for the first time. It sounded alien in his mouth, like a word from a dead language.
He reached out, and before I could react, his gloved fingers touched the side of my neck, his thumb resting on the pulse that beat there like a trapped bird. His touch was cold, analytical.
"That feeling of disconnection you cause," he said, his voice a low, thoughtful rumble, his gaze locked with mine. "That sudden, chilling void… it is not entirely unfamiliar to me."