The hall was too quiet.
Not respectful quiet. Not reverent.
The kind that waits for blood.
I could feel every pair of eyes on my hands as I rested them around the volunteer's wrist. His skin was clammy, pulse skittering like it wanted to escape his body altogether. The curse beneath it was worse than I'd expected—layered tight, braided with intent, threaded through muscle memory and fear.
Someone hadn't just wanted him hurt.
They wanted him obedient.
The Guild healer cleared his throat softly, the sound amplified by the chamber's acoustics. "You may begin, Mr. Ashford."
I didn't look at him.
I leaned closer to the volunteer instead, lowering my voice so only he could hear.
"Listen to me," I said. "You're not on display. You're not a test. You're a person who deserves to walk out of here intact."
His throat bobbed. "They said it would hurt less if I didn't fight."
"That's a lie people tell when they don't want witnesses," I replied. "You don't have to be brave. You just have to stay with me."
He nodded, eyes glossy.
I shifted my grip—not tightening, just grounding. Palm to wrist. Thumb pressing lightly against the inside of his arm where the pulse jumped hardest.
The warmth stirred.
Not rushing. Not flaring.
Waiting.
[Patient Receptiveness: 41%]
[Curse Complexity: High]
[Coercive Layer Detected: Active]
I exhaled slowly and let the warmth seep out in a thin, even stream. No glow. No spectacle. Just pressure, like easing a stiff joint back into motion.
The volunteer gasped.
Not in pain.
In surprise.
"That—" he whispered. "That's… different."
The Guild healer chuckled softly. "A placebo response. Common in emotionally charged environments."
I ignored him.
The warmth met resistance almost immediately. The curse reacted like a hand snapping shut around a throat, tightening reflexively when it sensed intrusion. The volunteer flinched, breath hitching.
"Stay," I murmured. "Don't pull away."
He clenched his jaw and nodded, eyes fixed on my face like it was the only stable thing in the room.
Good.
[Patient Receptiveness: 48%]
The warmth deepened.
The curse fought back.
Not cold this time.
Pressure.
It pushed against my magic, compressing sensation, trying to numb the pathways I was reopening. I felt it scrape along my nerves, testing, probing for weakness.
I adjusted—widened the contact instead of pushing harder. Let the warmth spread sideways, slipping around the resistance instead of slamming into it.
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Is he… doing nothing?" someone whispered.
The Guild healer's smile thinned. He raised his hands, light blooming brilliant and white around his fingers. "Observe the difference," he said smoothly, stepping toward his own platform. "True healing does not require—"
I cut him off.
"Stop."
The word cracked through the hall like a snapped cord.
He froze mid-step, surprise flickering across his face.
"I said stop," I repeated, louder now. "You're suppressing him."
"I'm preparing," the healer replied coolly.
"You're dampening his sensory field," I said. "You're not healing. You're controlling."
A stir of unease moved through the benches.
Valentina leaned forward slightly, violet eyes sharp. "Is that accurate?"
The Guild healer hesitated. Just long enough.
"It's standard procedure," he said. "Pain reduction ensures—"
"—compliance," I finished. "Yes. I know."
I turned back to the volunteer.
"Do you feel that?" I asked quietly.
He swallowed. "Like… like something's trying to put me to sleep."
"That's not relief," I said. "That's erasure."
The warmth surged—not stronger, but clearer. I let emotion bleed into it, not pleasure, not intimacy, but certainty. Presence. The simple, stubborn insistence that he was still here.
The curse reacted violently.
The runes flared under his skin, invisible but felt. He cried out, arching instinctively.
I held him steady.
"I've got you," I said, voice firm. "This is the hard part."
[Patient Receptiveness: 57%]
[Coercive Layer: Destabilizing]
The Guild healer stepped back, scowling now. "This is reckless. You're provoking backlash."
"Yes," I said. "On purpose."
The warmth slid deeper, threading itself between the curse's layers, finding the seams where fear had been stitched into muscle memory. I felt it then—the source. A knot of compulsion anchored just below the sternum, pulsing in time with his breath.
There.
I shifted my hand, pressing my palm flat over his chest.
The contact was intimate, yes—but not sexual. Not performative. Just human. Solid. Anchoring.
His breath stuttered.
[Patient Receptiveness: 64%]
The knot resisted, tightening, trying to collapse inward.
I leaned closer, my voice barely more than a breath. "Tell me one thing you want. Not what they told you to want. Not what you think you should say."
His lips trembled.
"I want… to stop being afraid," he whispered.
The words hit the curse like a hammer.
The warmth answered instantly, surging toward that desire, amplifying it—not into pleasure, but into relief sharp enough to cut through the fog.
The knot cracked.
A ripple ran through the hall—audible this time. A sound like ice fracturing underfoot.
The volunteer gasped, body going slack, then shuddered as sensation flooded back all at once.
[Patient Receptiveness: 78%]
[Coercive Layer: Shattered]
The curse didn't vanish.
It unraveled.
Thread by thread, its structure collapsing without the anchor of fear to hold it together. I followed the unraveling carefully, easing the warmth along each path, sealing nerves as they woke screaming from long suppression.
The volunteer sobbed—not from pain, but from the sudden, overwhelming absence of it.
"I can feel my hands," he choked. "I—I forgot what that felt like."
I stayed with him until his breathing steadied, until the tremors faded to exhaustion.
When I finally stepped back, the hall was silent again.
Not waiting this time.
Listening.
The Guild healer stared, disbelief etched across his features. "That's impossible," he said. "You didn't remove the curse properly. You—"
"I didn't overwrite him," I said, turning to face the crowd. "I didn't replace one form of control with another."
I gestured to the volunteer, now sitting upright, eyes clear for the first time since he'd entered.
"I gave him back his choice."
A beat.
Then Valentina stood.
"That concludes the demonstration," she said. Her voice carried effortlessly, iron under silk. "The council will deliberate."
The Guild healer opened his mouth to protest.
Isolde moved.
She didn't draw her sword. She didn't need to. She stepped into his space, armor whispering, presence alone enough to shut him up.
Lyra caught my eye from across the hall, grinning wide and feral.
You broke their favorite toy, her look said.
Seraphina didn't smile.
She watched me like someone watching a door close behind them.
The volunteer stood on shaky legs. He looked at me once more, then—unexpectedly—bowed. Deep. Awkward. Earnest.
"Thank you," he said, voice carrying.
He left the hall without looking back.
The murmurs began as soon as the doors closed behind him.
Not disbelief.
Argument.
Good.
The system chimed softly, almost reluctantly.
[Public Trial Complete]
[Outcome: Favorable]
[Influence Shift Detected]
[Warning: Retaliation Probability Increased]
I exhaled slowly, the adrenaline finally bleeding out of my veins.
What breaks first, I'd learned, isn't bone.
It's control.
And once people see it break, they start wondering who put it there in the first place.