Chapter 3

I don' t know how long I worked on the Warding Charm.

Days, maybe.

Pouring what was left of my life force into it.

When it was done, I collapsed.

I woke up in the same cold room.

Julian stood over me, a cruel smile on his face.

"Well, look who' s finally awake," he sneered.

"You' ve been out for over a week, you know."

A week. I had been that close to death.

He dangled the newly made Warding Charm in front of my face. It pulsed with a faint light, my light.

"Chloe is very pleased with it," Julian said. "It makes me feel so... secure."

He was feeding off my energy, thriving on my sacrifice.

I felt a surge of anger, but I was too weak to act on it.

"Get out," I managed to say.

Julian laughed. "As you wish, 'Master' Ethan."

He left, leaving me in the suffocating silence.

Later, Elara slipped into the room.

She brought food, water, and a small, folded piece of paper.

"A message, Master Ethan," she whispered, her eyes full of concern. "From Mistress Olivia."

Olivia.

My ally by forced betrothal.

The message was coded, something only another Sentinel or Guardian would understand.

It spoke of support, of a way out.

A flicker of hope ignited within me.

Chloe came to see me the next day.

She must have seen the slight improvement in my condition, the way I looked at Elara.

Or maybe she sensed my communication with Olivia.

Her possessiveness flared.

"You look better," she said, her voice tight.

"Don' t think our Legacy Pact is truly over just because you said so, Ethan."

"It requires formal dissolution by the Elders."

She was trying to reassert her control.

"And Julian," she added, her eyes narrowing, "he still needs your protection. If anything happens to him..."

The threat was clear.

She forced me to come to the main drawing-room.

Forced me to watch her dote on Julian, their affectionate displays a constant torment.

He reveled in it, his eyes always finding mine, taunting me.

Later, I found her in our old shared study.

She was looking through a box of mementos from our past.

Things I thought she had discarded.

But each item, a pressed flower, a faded photograph, had a small, bitter note attached in her handwriting.

"The day he chose his Sentinel duties over me."

"The day he proved he never loved Lily."

Accusations. Misinterpretations.

My heart ached with a familiar pain.