Elayas lay motionless on the bed, eyes open, breath shallow, the weight of silk pressing down on a body that barely felt like his own.
The door opened.
No knock.
Footsteps crossed the room, unhurried, familiar.
Silas stopped beside the bed.
"My lord," he said pleasantly.
The words were shaped like respect and carried none of it.
Elayas did not respond.
Silas leaned closer, studying him with professional interest. "You're awake earlier than usual. A good sign." He placed his palm against Elayas's chest, just as he always did.
Mana slipped into his body — thin, invasive, searching.
"Still functioning," Silas murmured. "Remarkable, really. Five years, and you refuse to let go."
He withdrew his hand and straightened.
"I've adjusted your treatment," he said, already reaching into his robe. "A final refinement."
Glass clicked softly as he produced a small crystal vial, cloudy with pale liquid. He held it up briefly, then brought it to Elayas's lips.
"This will help," Silas said. "It will make things easier."
After a moment, Elayas swallowed.
Silas watched carefully, then nodded once. "Good."
He moved away from the bed and crossed to the window. With a practiced gesture, he drew the curtain aside just enough to let light spill in.
"Such a pleasant morning," Silas said lightly. "Clear skies. Calm air." He glanced back over his shoulder. "A shame you don't get to enjoy it more often."
The curtain fell back into place.
"You should prepare yourself," Silas continued, walking toward the door. "Arrangements have been made."
Elayas's eyes shifted, barely.
"Escorts will be arriving soon," Silas added. "They'll see you properly attended to."
He paused at the doorway.
"Rest while you can, my lord."
The door closed softly behind him.
The room remained silent.
And listening.
__
Elayas woke to movement.
Not sound — movement. The subtle wrongness of the air, the way a room feels when it has forgotten how to be still. His eyes fluttered open, vision swimming, and the first thing he saw was the chandelier trembling faintly above him.
Boxes scraped across the floor.
Wood against stone.
Reality settled in pieces.
The maid stood near the wardrobe, her back to him, folding clothes with quick, economical motions. She did not glance in his direction. Another servant crossed the room carrying a crate of books, the bindings wrapped in cloth as if they were fragile things.
Elayas tried to speak.
His throat burned, raw and uncooperative. Only a thin rasp escaped him, barely louder than breath.
No one turned.
The porcelain cup sat untouched on the bedside table, its contents darkened and cold. The medicinal smell clung to the room, sharp enough to sting his eyes.
They are packing me.
The thought arrived with strange calm.
His vision blurred at the edges, the chandelier stretching and splitting as if reflected in disturbed water. He blinked hard, jaw tightening as he forced focus back into place.
The vial.
Silas's hand had lingered when he gave it to him. Clear glass. No markings. The faint metallic undertone beneath the herbs.
This will help you rest.
Elayas inhaled shallowly. He could feel it now — not pain, not sleep, but pressure. A dull weight pressing inward against his thoughts, smoothing sharp edges, slowing resistance. His mana, once vibrant and precise, felt muffled, as if wrapped in damp cloth.
Suppression.
Careful. Deliberate.
The maid lifted the velvet cloak from the foot of the bed and folded it neatly, smoothing the fabric with more care than she had shown him all morning.
"Waste of silk," she muttered again, softer this time — almost fond.
Something cold settled in Elayas's chest.
Once, this room had been crowded.
Scholars debating in hushed tones. Lords pretending patience. Silas standing just behind him, steady and reassuring, as Elayas dismantled problems men twice his age could barely articulate.
Once in a millennium.
Now they would not even meet his eyes.
The servants finished packing in silence. Drawers were emptied. Shelves stripped bare. The room hollowed itself around him, piece by piece, until it felt less like a sickroom and more like a place already abandoned.
When the last box was sealed, the maid paused.
For half a heartbeat, Elayas thought she might look at him.
She didn't.
The door closed.
Silence rushed in to fill the space they left behind.
It pressed against him immediately.
Elayas focused on breathing — shallow, controlled — anchoring himself to sensation. The weight of the blanket. The ache in his joints. The faint tremor in his hands.
Stay awake.
The chandelier above him shimmered, its crystals catching the dimming light. For an instant, he felt it again — that subtle awareness, the sense that the object knew the room, had stored it, held it.
Not now.
He barely had enough will to hold himself together.
Time slipped. Or maybe it fractured.
The light shifted again, dusk bleeding slowly across the walls, staining them with muted gold and violet. His thoughts wandered despite his efforts, tugged loose by the poison threading through his system.
Footsteps.
Not hurried. Controlled.
Elayas blinked, forcing his eyes open.
Figures stood at his bedside.
Three of them. Their faces were indistinct, swallowed by shadow and the haze creeping into his vision. He hadn't heard the door open. Hadn't heard them enter at all.
Hands touched him — gloved, efficient. A blanket adjusted. Straps slid beneath the mattress, tightening with quiet finality.
Restraints.
Panic flared, sharp and sudden, before the suppression smothered it. His heart raced uselessly, body lagging behind, heavy and slow.
Someone spoke.
The words reached him warped and distant, as if filtered through water.
"…orders confirmed…"
"…transfer at dusk…"
"…mother's Residence…"
His mother.
The word cut deeper than the fear.
She had not come.
Not herself.
Elayas tried to move, to demand answers, but his limbs responded sluggishly, betraying him. He forced air through his throat, willing sound to follow.
Nothing.
One of the figures leaned closer, checking the straps. Another pressed fingers briefly to his wrist, counting.
The chandelier trembled overhead.
The man nearest the bed stiffened, glancing up sharply before forcing his attention back to Elayas.
"Must've been the draft," he muttered.
They lifted the bed.
The world lurched as it was placed onto a wheeled frame. The ceiling slid past above him, broken by crystal and shadow. The motion unsettled his stomach, nausea rising and receding in slow waves.
Corridors passed in fragments.
Torchlight flared, then dimmed. Voices echoed, then vanished. Stone ceilings arched overhead, familiar paths reduced to disjointed impressions.
They don't want me dead yet, Elayas realized dimly.
They want me manageable.
The thought anchored him.
Cold resolve simmered beneath the suppression, steady and patient.
I will live.
Not because it was easy.
Not because anyone wanted him to.
But because he refused the ending chosen for him.
The motion slowed.
Night air brushed his skin — sharp, real, unfiltered by silk or stone. Somewhere nearby, metal creaked. A gate, perhaps. Or a carriage being readied.
Beyond the archway ahead, the world waited.
And something — subtle, inevitable — was already going wrong.