The paralysis was absolute. It wasn't just that Silas's muscles refused to fire; it felt as if his very bones had been replaced with lead pipes. The Mana Sickness was a cruel biological tax—the body's way of screaming that it was not designed to channel the emotions of a god.
Silas lay on the crystallized salt, his cheek pressed against the cold, hard ground. He could see Kade, the bounty hunter, curled in a fetal ball a few yards away, still whimpering, trapped in a nightmare loop of his own making.
Above them, the sky had stopped rippling, but the feeling remained—a lingering static charge in the air, like the moment before a lightning strike.
"Up we go, my King," Elara's voice was cheerful, jarringly at odds with the scene.
She grabbed Silas under the arms. For a woman of slender frame, her strength was unnatural. She didn't grunt or strain. She hoisted him with a fluidity that suggested she was augmenting her muscles with a subtle cantrip, or perhaps she just enjoyed carrying his weight.
She dragged him toward the wagon. Silas's boots left long furrows in the white dust.
"I... can... walk," Silas managed to wheeze, though it was a blatant lie.
"Hush," Elara teased, maneuvering him to the back of the covered wagon. "You won the bet, remember? I'm being 'docile.' I'm being a helpful, obedient maidservant."
She heaved him up onto the wooden floorboards of the wagon with a surprising lack of dignity. Silas sprawled onto the bedroll, his vision swimming with grey spots.
Elara climbed in after him. She didn't attend to him immediately. She went to the front of the wagon, grabbing the reins.
"Hyah!"
The two skeletal horses, unnerved by the psychic residue of the Hearts card, bolted forward. The wagon lurched, the wooden wheels groaning as they crunched over the salt.
Silas lay in the dark, swaying with the rhythm of the road. He forced himself to focus on the System interface, trying to ground himself in numbers.
[SYSTEM STATUS]
Health: 85% (Physical Exhaustion)
Mana: 13/100 (Regenerating...)
Status Effect: Mana Burn (Movement speed reduced by 90% for 2 hours).
He was helpless. A sitting duck in a rolling box.
Minutes passed, or maybe hours. The silence in the wagon was suffocating. Eventually, the wagon slowed to a steady trot.
Elara crawled back from the driver's bench. She lit a small oil lantern, casting dancing shadows against the canvas walls.
"Drink," she commanded, holding a waterskin to his lips.
Silas drank greedily. The water was warm and tasted of leather, but it was nectar.
"The hunter," Silas rasped, some sensation returning to his fingers. "We left him alive."
"We did," Elara agreed, uncorking a small vial of lavender oil. She began to unbutton Silas's shirt.
"What are you doing?" Silas tried to bat her hand away, but his arm moved with the speed of a sloth.
"Massage," she said simply. "Your meridians are knotted. If I don't work the tension out, you'll be stiff as a corpse tomorrow. An obedient maid takes care of her master, doesn't she?"
She pushed his hands down and straddled his hips.
It was an intimate, dominating position. Silas felt the weight of her, the heat radiating from her legs. In any other romance, this would be tender. With Elara, it felt like a predator playing with food.
She poured the oil onto her hands and pressed them into his chest.
Silas hissed. Her thumbs dug into the pressure points between his ribs with bruising force.
"You won the wager," Elara murmured, her eyes focused on her work. "You didn't kill him. So, for one week, I am yours to command. No schemes. No inciting riots."
She slid her hands up to his neck, squeezing the tense muscles there.
"But you and I both know you lost the war, Silas."
"The beacon," Silas whispered, looking up at her. The lantern light turned her violet eyes into pools of ink.
"The beacon," she confirmed. "You felt it. The 6 of Hearts is a dinner bell. The creatures of the Void... the ones that live in the spaces between the stars... they hunger for emotion. And you just broadcasted a five-course meal of pure trauma."
Silas closed his eyes. He knew she was right. By saving the hunter, he had doomed them to be hunted by something far worse.
"Where are we going?" Silas asked.
"The Whispering Canyons," Elara said, digging her thumb into a particularly painful knot near his collarbone. "The echo in the canyon walls will mask your psychic signature. It's the only place to hide until your scent fades."
"The Canyons are infested with Wyverns," Silas groaned.
"Better Wyverns than Star-Spawn," Elara countered. She leaned down, her face inches from his. Her hair tickled his nose. "Rest now. When you wake up, you'll need your strength. The 'obedient' week has started, but I can't protect you from everything."
She blew out the lantern.
Darkness reclaimed the wagon.
Silas lay there, the smell of lavender and ozone filling his nose. He listened to the creak of the wheels and the rhythmic breathing of the woman who was both his savior and his doom.
Despite the fear, despite the aching void in his chest where his mana used to be, exhaustion pulled him under.
He slept.
And he dreamed.
He dreamed he was back on the Throne of Bone. But the throne wasn't made of skulls anymore; it was made of cards. And every card had Elara's face on it. She was the Queen of Hearts, crying blood. She was the Queen of Spades, holding a severed head. She was the Queen of Diamonds, trapping him in glass.
Come back, the cards whispered. The game isn't finished.
"Wake up."
The wagon had stopped. Sunlight—harsh, real, unforgiving sunlight—was piercing through the canvas flaps.
Silas opened his eyes. He gasped, sitting up. The paralysis was gone, replaced by a deep, bruising ache in every muscle.
[MANA: 100/100 (RESTORED)]
He checked his hands. They were steady.
He crawled to the back of the wagon and threw open the flap.
They weren't on the Salt Flats anymore.
They were parked on the edge of a massive fissure in the earth. The ground dropped away into a labyrinth of red stone, winding deeper than the eye could see. The wind howled through the gaps, creating a sound like a thousand people whispering secrets.
[LOCATION DISCOVERED: THE WHISPERING CANYONS] [DANGER LEVEL: HIGH]
Elara was standing near the edge of the cliff, looking down. The wind whipped her coat around her legs.
"You slept for twelve hours," she called out without turning around.
Silas climbed down from the wagon. His boots hit the red dirt. He felt better. The mana was back, buzzing under his skin like caffeine.
"Did anything follow us?" Silas asked, walking up beside her.
"Not yet," Elara said. She pointed down into the canyon. " But the path ahead is narrow. The wagon won't fit."
Silas looked at the skeletal horses. They looked ready to collapse.
"We leave the wagon," Silas decided. "We pack what we can carry."
He looked at Elara. She looked demure, hands clasped behind her back, waiting for orders. The "docile" act.
"Stop looking at me like that," Silas muttered.
"Like what, Master?" she blinked innocently.
"Like you're planning a murder."
"I promised a week of peace," she smiled, tapping the stiletto on her thigh. "I intend to keep it. Unless, of course, something tries to eat us."
SCREEEE.
A shrill cry echoed from the depths of the canyon. It sounded like metal tearing.
Silas sighed. He summoned the interface.
[THE HOUSE IS OPEN]
"Let's go," Silas said, adjusting his gloves. "I hate hiking."
A/N: I hope you enjoy this novel. Support by adding to your library and giving a power stone or two. Thank you.