The command hung in the perfumed air like the blade of a guillotine. Hook him up.
Elian didn't have time to process the horror of the phrase before the room shifted into motion. The silent servants, who had been blending into the tapestries, surged forward. They didn't attack him; they moved with the practiced efficiency of hospital orderlies preparing a patient for surgery.
From the shadows behind the massive four-poster bed, they wheeled out a device that looked like a torture instrument designed by a jeweler. It was a tall, brass stand holding a suspended crystal the size of a human heart. The crystal was dark, pulsing with a faint, hungry rhythm. Connected to it were thick cables woven from silver wire and rune-inscribed leather, ending in heavy metallic bracers.
"Sit," Vane ordered, pointing to a high-backed chair positioned next to the Prince's bed.
Elian stared at the machine. "What is that?"
"The Siphon," Vane answered, his voice devoid of emotion. "It acts as a filter and a regulator. If Lysander tried to draw directly from your core, he would drain you dry in seconds and likely burn himself to ash in the process. This... moderates the flow."
"It moderates the murder, you mean," Elian hissed. He looked for a weapon. A vase, a candle holder, anything.
Vane moved faster than he could blink. One hand clamped around Elian's upper arm, his fingers digging into the muscle, while the other grabbed his waist, forcing him toward the chair. The contact was jarring—hard, unyielding, and terrifyingly strong. He didn't throw Elian; he placed him, but with a force that made it clear resistance was physical suicide.
"Do not fight this, Elian," Vane whispered, his breath hot against Elian's ear as he pressed him down into the leather seat. "If you struggle, the connection becomes unstable. An unstable connection boils the blood."
He grabbed Elian's wrists, removing the silk cuffs and replacing them instantly with the heavy silver bracers of the Siphon. They clicked shut with a sound like a jail cell locking.
"Comfortable?" Lysander asked from the bed. He had settled back against the pillows, watching the preparations with a feverish, greedy glint in his watery eyes. He extended his own thin, pale arm. A servant attached a matching silver cuff to his wrist.
Elian felt the connection immediately. It wasn't physical; it was a spiritual hook. He felt a cold, slimy sensation crawl up his arm, bypassing his skin and latching onto the hum of magic deep in his chest. It felt like a leech attaching itself to his soul.
"I am not a battery," Elian gritted out, his heart hammering against his ribs. "You have no right."
"I am the Prince," Lysander snapped, his voice gaining a cruel edge. "I have every right. Your life belongs to the Crown. Be grateful your miserable little existence serves a purpose."
Vane stepped back, positioning himself between the two men, his hand resting on the control lever of the brass stand. He looked at Elian one last time. His grey eyes were dark, unreadable. Was that regret? Or just calculation?
"Breathe," Vane commanded.
He pulled the lever.
The world turned white.
Elian screamed. It wasn't a scream of fear, but of violation. It felt as though someone had reached inside his chest, grabbed his lungs, and pulled. The magic that he had spent his life hiding, the warm, golden hum that kept him warm in the winter, was being ripped out of him.
Through the haze of pain, he saw the crystal in the machine flare to life.
The dark stone turned a blinding, brilliant gold.
"More," Lysander gasped from the bed. His head was thrown back, his eyes rolled up into his skull. The sickly pallor of his skin was vanishing, replaced by a flush of color. "Give me more!"
"Holding steady at twenty percent capacity," Vane announced, his eyes fixed on the crystal. "Vital signs are stable."
"It's not enough!" Lysander shrieked. "It tastes... it tastes like pure sunlight! Open the valve, Vane! Now!"
"Highness, that is dangerous—"
"DO IT!"
Vane's jaw tightened. He shifted the lever.
The pull on Elian doubled. He arched his back, his fingers clawing at the leather armrests of the chair. The pain was blinding, searing through his veins like liquid fire. But beneath the pain, something strange was happening.
Usually, when Elian used his magic—to heal a cut or warm a room—it felt like draining a cup. He got tired. He got cold.
But this... this felt different.
As Lysander pulled, Elian's core didn't empty. It woke up.
The dormant power inside him, suppressing itself for twenty years to keep him hidden, sensed the demand and roared in response. It recognized the Palace. It recognized the altitude. It recognized the desperation of the boy in the bed.
And it rejected him.
Not yours, a voice whispered in Elian's mind. Not him.
The crystal between them began to vibrate. The golden light deepened, turning from a soft yellow to a furious, burning amber.
"Vane!" Elian choked out, blood trickling from his nose. "It's... it's pushing back!"
"What are you doing?" Lysander screamed, sitting up. Smoke was beginning to rise from the cuff on the Prince's wrist. "Stop it! You're burning me!"
"I'm not doing it!" Elian yelled. "It doesn't like you!"
The machine began to whine, a high-pitched mechanical shriek. The silver cables were glowing red hot.
"Disconnect!" Vane roared. He lunged for the lever.
But he was too late.
A pulse of raw, concentrated solar energy surged from Elian, shot through the crystal, and slammed into Lysander.
The fake Prince didn't just absorb it; he was thrown back against the headboard as if he had been kicked by a horse. The silver cuff on Lysander's wrist shattered, spraying molten metal across the silk sheets.
Lysander shrieked, clutching his arm, which was now branded with a golden, glowing burn in the shape of a sunburst.
The Siphon exploded.
Glass shards rained down. Vane threw himself over Elian, shielding him with his body as the brass stand crumpled. Vane took the brunt of the blast, a shard of crystal skittering off his armor.
Silence fell over the room, heavy and smelling of ozone and burnt hair.
Elian was gasping for air, slumped in the chair. His cuffs were still intact, but they were glowing softly. He felt... incredible. He wasn't drained. He was buzzing with energy, his skin tingling, his vision sharper than it had ever been.
Vane slowly pushed himself off him. He looked at the wreckage of the machine, then at the whimpering Prince on the bed, and finally at Elian.
He grabbed Elian's face between his hands, tilting his head back. His touch was frantic, searching.
"Are you alive?" Vane demanded, his voice rough.
"I think so," Elian whispered. He looked at Vane's hands. His gloves were singed.
"Get him out!" Lysander screamed from the bed, cradling his burned arm. Tears of pain and rage were streaming down his face. "He tried to kill me! He attacked me!"
Vane looked at the Prince. "He didn't attack you, Lysander. You drew too much. The vessel overloaded."
"He is a monster!" Lysander sobbed, his eyes wide with a newfound terror. He pointed a shaking finger at Elian. "Look at him! He's not even tired! That much power should have killed a commoner!"
Vane looked back at Elian. He saw the flush in his cheeks, the brightness of the violet eyes. Lysander was right. A transfer of that magnitude should have left Elian in a coma. Instead, he looked like he had just woken up from a long, restful sleep.
A shadow of suspicion crossed Vane's face. A puzzle piece clicking into place, though the picture was still obscure.
"Guards!" Vane barked.
The doors burst open and the two Praetorians rushed in, weapons drawn.
"Secure the Prince. Get the Physicians," Vane ordered. He unbuckled the hot silver cuffs from Elian's wrists, his movements sharp and angry. He hauled Elian out of the chair.
"You," he growled at Elian, "are coming with me."
"I told you," Elian said, his voice trembling but defiant as the adrenaline began to fade into shock. "It didn't feel right."
Vane didn't answer. He dragged Elian out of the room, away from the sobbing Prince and the smell of burning magic. He moved with a terrifying urgency, marching Elian down the corridor, past the staring servants, past the guards.
He didn't stop until they reached the end of the Royal Wing, dragging Elian into a small, dimly lit room—his private study.
He kicked the door shut and shoved Elian against the wood, pinning him there with his body.
"Who are you?" Vane demanded, his voice a low snarl. His forearm pressed against Elian's collarbone, trapping him. "And don't tell me you're a healer from the Wards. Normal mages don't shatter Siphons. Normal mages don't burn Royal blood."
Elian looked up at him. Vane was furious, yes, but he was also close. Too close. Elian could feel the heat of the Commander's body through his armor, feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest. The danger Vane radiated was intoxicating.
"I don't know!" Elian cried, frustration finally spilling over. "I've been hiding in the mud my whole life! I don't know what I am!"
Vane stared at him, searching for a lie. He saw only confusion and fear.
Slowly, the tension in Vane's frame eased, though he didn't step back. He brought his hand up, brushing a stray lock of hair away from Elian's forehead. His thumb grazed Elian's temple.
"You aren't safe here," Vane whispered, the anger replaced by something darker, something more possessive. "Lysander will want your head for this. He is vindictive, and he is scared."
"So let me go," Elian pleaded softly. "Let me go back to the Wards."
Vane shook his head. His eyes dropped to Elian's lips.
"I can't," he murmured. "You are the only thing keeping the sun in the sky. If you leave, we all die."
He leaned in, his lips hovering inches from Elian's.
"And besides," he added, his voice dropping to a husk that made Elian's knees weak. "I haven't figured you out yet. And I never leave a puzzle unsolved."
He pulled back abruptly, the moment shattering. He walked to his desk and poured a drink, his hands shaking slightly.
"You will stay in my quarters tonight," Vane announced, his back to Elian. "It is the only place in the Palace where the Prince's assassins cannot reach you."
Elian slid down the door until he hit the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. He was a prisoner in the Wolf's den. But as he looked at the man pouring whiskey with trembling hands, he realized something else.
The Wolf was afraid of him.