The violet glow of the sapphire was no longer a steady hum; it was a frantic, screaming pulse against Ren's throat.
It vibrated with such intensity that it felt like a serrated blade was being pressed against his windpipe. Every step he took toward the North Tower was a battle against the "Leash."
The further he had strayed toward the archives, the more the collar had begun to contract, reminding him that a Ground was never meant to be a sovereign entity or have freedom. He was like a limb, and he was currently out of place.
He sprinted through the damp, corridors of the lower levels, his lungs burning with the cold, stagnant air.
He had to get back. If Cian found his bed empty, the "mouse" Julian had let go would be crushed before it ever learned to live. Or weave in this case.
As he reached the hidden servants' entrance—a narrow, revolving stone door that led into the heart of the tower, one the map of before had shown him—a shadow detached itself from the obsidian wall.
"You're late, zero."
Julian was still there.
But the playful boredom that usually defined his handsome face had vanished. He was leaning against the cold stone, a flickering green spark dancing between his knuckles. He looked at Ren's trembling hand—the one Ren was desperately trying to tuck into the silk sleeve of his midnight-blue uniform—and his emerald eyes narrowed into slits.
"Ten minutes over the half-hour, little bird," Julian whispered, stepping into Ren's path. The scent of sandalwood was thick, almost suffocating in the narrow hall.
"Cian is awake and searching. His resonance spiked the moment you touched that silver-veined book in the archives. He can feel your pulse through the lead, Ren. He can feel your heartbeat accelerating, and right now, he can feel your terror."
Ren gasped, clutching his throat as the sapphire flared a warning red. "I—I just wanted to know what was happening to... I didn't mean to stay so long—"
"Quiet," Julian hissed, his hand snaking out to grab Ren's shoulder. His grip was surprisingly strong, his fingers digging into the silk. He shoved Ren toward the service stairs.
"Go to his chambers straight before he really comes out to search properly. Now. If you're lucky, he'll think it was just a nightmare that drew you out of your cell. If you're unlucky..."
Julian didn't finish the sentence. He simply stepped back into the shadows, his presence vanishing as if he were a ghost of the tower itself.
Ren didn't wait.
He scrambled up the stairs, his bare feet slapping against the stone. He reached the heavy, gold-leafed doors of the Prince's master suite.
They didn't just open; they were blasted inward by a wave of pressurized mana before Ren could even touch the handle.
The room was a storm of white-blue lightning.
Cian was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, his silk night-shirt torn at the shoulder, revealing skin that was glowing with a terrifying, jagged radiance. The air in the room didn't just smell of ozone; it felt like it was being stripped of oxygen. Scorched marks marred the expensive rugs, and a heavy oak chair lay splintered against the far wall.
"Where," Cian's voice wasn't human. It was a distorted, multi-layered roar of raw, unrefined power. "Were. You."
Ren fell to his knees, the sheer pressure of the Prince's aura making his nose bleed. The copper taste of blood filled his mouth. "Your Highness... I couldn't sleep... the tower felt so small... I went to the gardens..."
Cian was across the room in a blur of motion. He grabbed the iron collar and slammed Ren's back against the door with enough force to make Ren's vision go white. The sapphire flared a blinding, angry crimson, reflecting in the Prince's chaotic blue eyes.
"You lie," Cian hissed, his face inches from Ren's. His golden hair was wild, static electricity making it stand on end.
"I felt a pull. A thief's pull. Something was draining me from the dark, and it wasn't the collar. It wasn't the Grounding. It spiked my magic. It was you."
Cian's hand moved from the collar to Ren's throat, his grip tightening until Ren's heels left the floor. "I told you, Null. You are a tool. A tool does not wander. A tool does not take more than it is given. You reached into my core."
In that moment of pure, suffocating terror, Ren felt it again.
The Silver Stitch in his palm didn't just throb; it unraveled.
It wasn't a choice. It was an instinct.
Cian wasn't himself now. His magic was making him go out of control. The trigger of Ren going too far triggered a backlash on him. And the fact that Ren tried to feed on it from where he was made the prince angrier.
A single thread of moonlight-silver, thinner than a spider's silk, shot out from Ren's hand. It was invisible to the naked eye, but as it wrapped itself around Cian's wrist, the effect was like cold water on a grease fire.
The white lightning in the room died instantly.
The jagged radiance beneath Cian's skin was smoothed away as if by an invisible hand.
The Prince gasped, his grip loosening as the pressure in his chest—the 'stagnation' he had lived with since his birth—simply evaporated.
For the first time, Cian looked genuinely confused.
The permanent headache, the constant roar of power behind his eyes... it was gone.
Ren slumped to the floor, coughing and gasping for air. He looked down at his hand, terrified.
I did it. I harvested him.
Cian stared at his own hand, then back at the trembling boy at his feet. The silence in the room was heavier than the storm had been.
"What did you do?" Cian whispered.
The royal arrogance was gone, replaced by a sharp, predatory suspicion. He knelt down, grabbing Ren's chin and forcing him to look up.
"That wasn't a Null's void opening. That was... something else. You didn't just take the overflow. You reached in and straightened the mess."
Ren shook his head frantically, tears spilling down his cheeks. He didn't want this.
"I don't know, sir. I'm just... empty. There's a hole in me. I just tried to make the pain stop."
Cian stared into Ren's brown eyes for a long, agonizing minute. He was looking for the Weaver's spark, but the "Null" mask held. All he saw was a terrified boy who had accidentally saved him from a meltdown.
"You are a very dangerous thing."
Cian murmured, his thumb brushing over Ren's bottom lip. "I think... I think I should have killed you in the North Tower after all. Because now that I've felt that... I don't think I can let anyone else have you."
He still didn't kill him now.
Instead, he dragged Ren toward the massive, silken bed and threw him onto the floor at the foot of it.
"Sleep here," Cian commanded, the ice returning to his voice.
"On the floor. If you move so much as an inch before the sun hits that window, I'll have the Sages strip your soul to see what's hiding inside you. Do you understand?"
"Yes... sir," Ren whispered.
As the Prince climbed back into his bed, the room returned to a cold, oppressive quiet. Ren curled into a ball on the hard stone floor, his hand tucked against his chest. He could hear the Prince's breathing above him—steady, rhythmic, and for the first time, peaceful.
But Ren wasn't peaceful. He touched the center of his palm and felt it.
A second stitch was complete.
And a third was already beginning to form, pulling at the stray threads of Cian's lingering mana in the air.
He was weaving the Prince's life into his own skin. And the more he mended the prince, the more he felt himself becoming something the world had spent centuries trying to burn.
Ren closed his eyes, but he didn't sleep.