Chapter thirty: Thorne's torment
By noon, the candles had melted down into pale puddles of wax. She hadn't moved from the edge of her bed.
The collar, that damned iron thing, lay dormant against her skin—no longer constricting, but not forgotten. She could still feel where it had bruised her.
Part of her was relieved.
The other part… simmered.
It wasn't just that he had left. It wasn't just that he had watched her choke on the floor, eyes wide, body writhing like a caught thing.
It was that he hadn't flinched. Hadn't shouted. Hadn't rushed.
He had simply stood there—cold, silent, calculating—until the collar released her.
Like he had expected it.
No—known it.
She stood at last, unsteady, and crossed to the basin. Her fingers trembled as she splashed cold water onto her face. The chill did little to quiet the roaring in her blood.
Her reflection wavered.
For one terrible second, it wasn't her looking back.
The woman in the mirror was older, ravaged by battle. Blood streaked across her brow. A bloom of crimson spread through the pale fabric of her gown like a flower pressed in time. Lips parted—not in a breath—but in a final gasp.
Then it was gone.
Elira stumbled back, clutching the silver locket at her chest. The metal pulsed faintly, warm against her skin.
The halls outside her room were colder than usual, the light from the windows wan and sickly. Servants passed her without glance, their faces blank, hurried.
She descended the stairs like a ghost. A remnant of something once living.
Until she reached the western wing.
The door to Lucien's study groaned open on its own.
No wind. No one behind it.
Just the silent beckoning of fate.
She hesitated—but it wasn't the collar that urged her forward this time.
Something else. Older. Hungrier.
She stepped inside.
Lucien was seated behind his desk, surrounded by parchment and open tomes. He looked less like a noble and more like a relic—half-buried in a grave of ink and vellum. His coat was draped on the chair behind him, sleeves rolled, his forearms crisscrossed with old scars. Faint runes peeked out beneath the skin like whispers of ancient pacts.
He didn't look up.
"Elira."
Her name, spoken in that perfectly even tone. As if nothing had happened. As if she hadn't nearly died at his feet.
"You knew," she said softly.
Lucien did not pretend otherwise. "Yes."
"You knew the collar would… would start reacting. To my emotions."
"Yes."
"And you said nothing?"
A pause.
"I did not."
That was what broke her.
Her voice sharpened. "You let me choke like a dog on the floor. You watched me suffer. You didn't warn me—didn't even try to prepare me."
"You needed to understand what fear costs in this place," he said, looking up now. His gaze wasn't cruel. It was worse: it was tired. Resigned.
"And what about the cost to me?" Her voice rose. "What about what it takes from me to keep living like this? Don't you think I've lost enough?"
Lucien stood, slow and deliberate.
She stepped back instinctively—but he didn't come closer. Instead, he walked to the hearth and tossed in a slip of parchment.
It flared immediately, curling into ash.
"You are not the only one bound, Elira."
She scoffed. "You really expect me to believe that?"
He turned to face her fully.
"You think I wear no chains?" His voice was low, edged with something bitter.
"Oh, forgive me," she snapped. "Were you shackled and collared and tossed to monsters wrapped in silk and fangs? Were you dragged from your family? Threatened with death if you disobey?"
Lucien didn't flinch.
Instead, he slowly unbuttoned the top clasp of his shirt and pulled the fabric down just enough for her to see.
Not much. Just enough.
There, etched faintly across the pale skin near his collarbone, shimmered runes—ancient, broken, and pulsing once with a flicker of power before dimming again.
She froze.
"You…" Her voice dropped. "You're bound."
"I chose this collar," he said. "Long ago. When I made a vow to this House. A blood pact that cannot be undone."
Her anger faltered. Confusion rushed in to fill the space.
"Why?" she asked.
Lucien's expression didn't change. But his eyes—those silver eyes, usually so unreadable—clouded.
"Because some debts cannot be paid in coin. Only in blood."
She looked at the markings on his skin again. "And me? Why bring me here if you never meant to let me live?"
He approached.
Each step measured.
Each breath between them taut with something neither of them could name.
"You remind me of someone," he said softly.
Elira blinked.
That struck deeper than anything else.
A phantom pain opened in her chest, one that had no name.
He wasn't looking at her. Not really. He was looking through her. Past her. As though some shadow from long ago stood in her place.
"Was she a prisoner too?" she whispered.
"No," he said. "She was my death."
Her breath hitched.
Lucien lifted a hand—slowly, as if touching her might set the world ablaze. His fingers hovered near her cheek.
But they never touched.
Only trembled.
"I dreamed of you last night," he said. "You died in my arms."
Elira's heart pounded. And at that moment, the collar reacted.
Not with pain.
But with warmth.
A slow, pulsing heat that wrapped around her neck like a second heartbeat.
Lucien saw it. His eyes darkened.
He let his hand drop.
The softness vanished.
"Go," he said, voice clipped.
She stared at him, unmoving.
Before she could turn away, she asked one final question.
"What was her name?"
A flicker of pain passed across his face.
But he said nothing.
And she did not ask again.
That night, the fire in her room whispered again.
"He remembers the end. But not the beginning."
Elira lay curled beneath the blankets, fingers gripping Calen's locket like a lifeline.
The mirror across the room shimmered faintly.
And there—just for a moment—she saw a face.
Not her own.
Calen.
His eyes filled with silent urgency, lips moving without sound.
She sat up, breath caught in her throat.
The glass fogged.
Words formed, written in the language of smoke and flame.
Not all of me is gone.