The threat of the Nightshade Bloom was a cold reality I had to compartmentalize. While I waited for Vesper to return with Rian (under the guise of historical research), I couldn't risk revealing the danger. I had to appear completely unaffected, mentally prepared for the evening training session.
I spent the afternoon standing, practicing the mental anchoring. I envisioned Lorcan's shadow as a dense, protective wall, a crucible to contain my own destructive fire. Isolde's malice was the fuel; Lorcan's cold was the lens.
When Vesper escorted me to the Obsidian Pit that evening, the air was heavier than before. Lorcan was already in position, his back to the wall, his broad shoulders braced. He wore the same minimal leather tunic, a silent testament to the extreme heat he expected to endure.
He didn't acknowledge my presence, maintaining the severe, clinical distance of a surgeon preparing for a risky procedure.
"The duration will be longer, Seraphina," Lorcan stated, his voice flat. "Yesterday, you channeled for thirty seconds. Today, you will attempt sixty. You will push the fire harder, closer to the point of instability. Vesper will use a temporal charm to measure the flow."
He was pushing me to the precipice of explosion. If I failed, his shadow might not just temper the power; it might devour it, or worse, the combined forces would tear the keep apart.
"Understood, Your Majesty," I replied, my voice steady.
I walked up behind him, taking a moment to breathe. I peeled off my gloves, the cool air hitting my bare palms. I didn't hesitate this time. Hesitation had caused my explosion before.
I placed my hands firmly against the thick, warm leather covering his back, just below the shoulder blades.
The reaction was immediate and infinitely more intense than the first time. The Sun-Fire in my core didn't merely surge; it roared out, recognizing the conduit instantly.
My focus wasn't on the heat leaving me, but on the chilling feedback returning. I wasn't just feeling his cold; I felt the absolute, vibrating density of his containment. It felt like trying to pour molten metal into a black hole. The resistance was immense but the pull was overwhelming.
I forced the fire harder. The leather beneath my palms began to smoke instantly.
Lorcan's breath hitched. It was a sharp, ragged sound that Vesper dutifully recorded with a flicker of a stylus. He didn't just grunt this time; his entire body stiffened, his muscles coiling under the leather.
As the intensity peaked around the forty-second mark, the magical feedback loop became painful. I felt a piercing sensation in my own chest, mirroring the agonizing pressure of the Shadow-Curse on Lorcan's heart.
This time, the emotional connection wasn't just loneliness or need; it was raw, agonizing responsibility. I felt the weight of the throne, the relentless pressure to survive for the sake of the kingdom, and the excruciating, constant physical pain of the curse tearing him apart from the inside. He wasn't ruling; he was holding on by sheer, magnificent force of will.
My vision swam with the intensity of the shared pain. My own core was screaming, and his was a vast, silent ocean of suffering.
Then, at precisely fifty seconds, I felt an anomaly. My fire, which was now white-hot and at maximum output, hit a small, weak spot in his control. It wasn't a flaw in the curse, but a flaw in him.
Lorcan's head slammed back against the wall, and a single, raw, broken sound was ripped from his throat.
"Morta!"
It was a desperate, guttural sound, the ancient Fae word for 'Death' or 'Mortal'—but laced with an agonizing mixture of relief and terror. It wasn't directed at me; it was directed at the intrusive, temporary reprieve my fire was giving him from the endless cold.
The sound shattered my concentration. The pain was too great, the vulnerability too sudden. My channeling wavered dangerously.
Vesper's voice was tense. "Fifty-eight seconds, Your Highness. Maintain the flow!"
With two seconds left, I slammed my will back into the flow, using the word Morta as a new anchor. He was right. I was his temporary death, the thing that both threatened and sustained him.
At sixty seconds, Lorcan spoke, his voice ragged but commanding: "Release!"
I instantly ripped my hands away, stumbling backward. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and burning leather.
I stood there, breathing heavily, watching Lorcan slowly push off the wall. The leather tunic was now visibly scorched where my hands had rested, the heat having burned two perfect handprints into the material.
Lorcan turned around, his face pale and slick with sweat. He was trembling violently, but he held himself with iron control. He looked like he had been through a medieval torture session, but his eyes were clear, focused entirely on me.
"The transfer was successful," he announced, ignoring the obvious pain. "Sixty seconds of maximal stability. Your focus is improving, Seraphina. That is a necessary result."
He walked toward me, but stopped the safe distance away. He reached up and slowly, deliberately, touched the newly scorched leather handprint on his back.
"You pushed the limit, and you held the flow," Lorcan continued, his voice regaining its cold, monarchical flatness. "But do not think for a moment that this is merely a physical exchange. The power that flowed into me today was enough to kill a lesser Fae instantly. You felt the agony of the curse. The more you connect with my shadow, the more vulnerable you become to the truth of this throne."
He left without another word, his powerful frame radiating a debilitating exhaustion.
I stood in the Pit, gazing at the massive obsidian walls. Lorcan's anguish was echoing in my mind. He wasn't a monster entirely; he was a man being consumed by a curse that forced him into monstrous actions, like trying to turn me into a battery.
I had survived the second session and pushed the boundary of his control. Now, I needed to know if Rian had found the Nightshade antidote. Surviving Lorcan's training was pointless if Isolde's poison killed me first.