Bootsteps echoed against the marble steps of the imperial pace.

  The cold limestone vibrated faintly underfoot, and the smoothed stairs gleamed darkly, worn by centuries.

  Elysia was running.

  Her cloak sliced through the quiet, descending deep into the pace.

  “Kyle.” She whispered his name to herself.

  Each time it fell from her throat, the words from that day stabbed deeper:

  “Magical blood trace. Simir to Subject A-0.”

  It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. It must not be.

  But what if— The victim’s age. Gender. Magic type. Everything pointed to him. His trace. His pulse.

  “Why… would you leave that behind?”

  “Why did you do it, Kyle.”

  Her breath caught. For the first time, she clutched her robe as she ran.

  Her silver hair unraveled. Her breath tangled. Her eyes trembled.

  Below, in the cold underground prison— Walls scorched by ancient wards. From the ceiling, water dropped steadily onto stone. The air was thick with blood and mold.

  The iron door was rusted and massive, made for something not quite human.

  “Open it.”

  The guards stared at her. But she repeated, sharp and unwavering:

  “I am Elysia Altrière, Imperial Mage. Open it. Now.”

  He was kneeling.

  Silent.

  As if his very presence before her stripped him of the right to breathe.

  The floor beneath him was soaked red.

  Blood seeped between the runes, stretching like crimson thread.

  The air shifted— as if something, or someone, was watching.

  A drop fell from his lips. Another from beneath his eye.

  The blood had started flowing from the moment his name was spoken.

  Elysia couldn’t move. This—was not a simple failure of control.

  He was kneeling without command.

  Forcing his broken body to rise, crawling toward her.

  His lips torn, he tried to smile. A cracked expression bled across his face.

  “I… waited… Lady Elysia…”

  He stammered between ragged breaths.

  “Please… don’t abandon me.”

  His legs were broken. His wrists, twisted. With every breath, he coughed blood.

  But he fell, by choice, before her.

  Somewhere in the tremble of his body, his hand pointed straight at her.

  Not escape. Not obedience.

  Waiting.

  For her. For her gaze. For her command.

  Longing.

  Only then did she begin to understand—

  He was not waiting for an order.

  He was waiting for her.

  This was not control. Not submission.

  This was—

  Elysia swallowed hard.

  He loved her.

  And that love was too quiet, too strong, too broken, and terrifyingly grotesque.

  One step. She stepped back. Not her heart, but her mind recoiled.

  He was not a subject. Not a failed weapon.

  He was someone pouring emotion toward her.

  But that emotion— was not something easily called love.

  Then— his chest heaved. The air snapped. A cough of blood burst from his lips.

  His body convulsed.

  Blood spilled down his chin. His fingers trembled. His shoulder cracked. The magic circle responded on its own.

  An uncontrolled wave rippled through the chamber.

  Elysia reacted instantly.

  “Don’t move.”

  For the first time, she gave a command.

  “I will order you now.”

  Blood spread beneath him. Her lips trembled. One sylble fell:

  “Live.”

  And the magic stopped. The air settled. Kyle colpsed into unconsciousness.

  In that moment, I stopped writing. And I turned.

  Siren said nothing. But it, more than anything, was skilled at gathering emotion—and more distant from it than anyone else.