Chapter 3

Pain. That was the first thing that dragged Eve back from the dark. A heavy, throbbing ache that seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat, radiating from every corner of her body.

She forced her eyes open. The light was dim, filtering through gaps in a rotting wooden roof. The air smelled of crushed herbs, dry dirt, and old smoke. She tried to shift her leg, but a stiff resistance stopped her. She looked down. Her limbs were tightly bound with rough wooden splints and strips of torn cloth. She was completely immobilized.

A low, rhythmic scraping sound came from across the room. A broad back was turned to her, hunched over a wooden table. The man was grinding something in a stone mortar, the muscles in his arms shifting under the rough fabric of his shirt.

She recognized that back. The silent watcher from the stairs. Cato Sims.

The memories crashed over her-the climb, the shockwave, the bone-snapping fall. She should be dead. The realization settled in her stomach like a block of ice.

"Did you save me?" she croaked. Her voice sounded like gravel scraping against sandpaper.

The grinding stopped. Cato turned around. His face was the same as it had been at the stairs-blank, calm, utterly unreadable. He didn't answer. He picked up a chipped clay bowl filled with water and walked over to the bed. He dipped a crude wooden spoon into the water and brought it to her cracked lips.

Eve's instinct screamed at her to turn away. She didn't know this man. She didn't know what he wanted. But the raw, burning thirst in her throat overrode her pride. She parted her lips, letting the cool water trickle inside. It soothed the fire in her throat just enough to let her think clearly.

She studied him as he pulled the spoon back. He looked young, maybe in his early twenties, but his eyes held a stillness that belonged to someone who had seen centuries of silence.

"Why?" she demanded, her voice gaining a fraction of strength.

Cato didn't speak. He simply turned his back on her again and resumed grinding the herbs.

His dismissal ignited a spark of fury in her chest. She tried to reach for the Aether inside her, desperate to feel some semblance of control, some spark of her former power. She searched the void in her chest. Nothing. Just a dead, empty space where her magic used to burn. The Order hadn't just exiled her; they had surgically removed her soul.

The despair hit her like a physical blow, triggering a cascade of fragmented memories. The trial room. The cold stone floors. The sneering faces of her former comrades.

Flashback: Grand Master Bernardo Rowe sat high on the judgment seat, his face carved from marble. "Eve Salazar, your arrogance led to the slaughter of your squad. You hoarded the Iceborn Heart for yourself."

Flashback: She had screamed her innocence until her throat bled, but when she tried to explain what happened in the snow, her mind hit a blank wall. She couldn't remember. She only remembered the endless white, the sudden spray of blood across the snow, and a cold, stabbing pain in her chest.

Flashback: Bernardo raised his hand, severing her connection to the Aether forever. "You are cast out."

Eve gasped, her chest heaving as the memory released her. The sudden movement sent a bolt of white-hot agony through her broken ribs. She squeezed her eyes shut, a low groan escaping her lips.

Cato was beside her in an instant. He dropped the pestle and reached out, his hand moving toward her shoulder to check her bindings.

"Don't touch me!" she snapped, her voice raw and trembling.

His hand froze in mid-air. He held it there for a second, then slowly retracted it, his expression unchanged. He turned away, opened a rickety cabinet, and pulled out a relatively clean strip of cloth. He soaked it in the cool water from the bowl and leaned over her again.

This time, he didn't reach for her body. He gently placed the damp cloth across her fevered forehead.

The cold seeped into her skin, cutting through the chaos in her mind. She stared up at him, her breath coming in short, angry pants. She was entirely at his mercy. A prisoner in the home of a man she didn't know, who wouldn't even speak to her.