The next morning, Dorian stood in the doorway, gazing out at the abandoned houses scattered across the clearing. Throughout the night he had returned to Leonie's room again and again, spending hours seated beside her, watching over her. His worry only deepened with every passing hour.
During the quiet stretches of the night he had agonized over the choice before him.
Should he send two of his men back to his father to report that the meeting had failed, or should he turn this forgotten place into a temporary base until Leonie recovered?
Duty screamed for the first. His instincts, and something far more personal, demanded the second.
In the end, he chose to stay.
At dawn he informed the others of his decision. Xavier had not taken the news well, but the rest accepted Dorian's rebellion with surprising ease. He then sent Marcus, Xavier, and Nir to scout the area for anything suspicious.
Judging by Leonie's condition, they wouldn't be leaving for a while—and he refused to be caught off guard.
"What's your theory?" he asked without turning around when he heard someone approach.
Filarion stepped up beside him, coming from Leonie's room. He leaned against the doorframe, studying the quiet landscape. A long silence passed before he finally spoke.
"I have several theories… none of them particularly comforting."
Dorian arched a brow and turned slightly toward him.
"I'm listening."
He already suspected what Filarion was about to say—but he needed to hear it spoken aloud.
"Her magic is fluctuating. At times I feel it strongly; at others it's barely a whisper. The headaches worsen whenever her magic surges. There's only one explanation… that potion she drank her whole life must have been suppressing it."
Dorian exhaled slowly. He had reached the same conclusion in the dead of night.
"What kind of potion could do that?" he asked.
"I have no idea," Filarion replied with a sigh. "It may originate from our ancient book. It would make sense. During the war, our people were weakened through knowledge taken from the book—knowledge that still scars us to this day. And here, on human lands, our magic is already far more difficult to wield. Perhaps that destructive knowledge survived among them…"
"Or perhaps the book itself is in their possession," Dorian finished.
The thought hung between them, heavy and chilling.
Marcus arrived just then, breaking the silence.
"Nothing out there. Xav and Nir are staying outside until dusk."
He joined them, listening intently as Dorian summarized what they had theorized so far. By the end, Marcus' face had grown grim.
"We need to take her home. Maybe one of the elders will know what we're dealing with."
"It's too late for that," Dorian countered, shaking his head.
"It would take at least two weeks to reach our borders. I can't risk traveling with her like this."
"And you'd rather leave her here to die for certain?" Marcus' voice rose, tight with frustration.
"Enough," Filarion interrupted calmly. "We still don't know what's happening—only theories. Most likely her suppressed magic is trying to break free."
"Oh, is that all?" Marcus snapped. "Did you see what she's capable of already? What do you think will happen when a supposedly extinct magic—one we barely know anything about—erupts inside someone who's had it smothered for twenty years? Best case? It kills her instantly. Worst case? It takes us with her."
Filarion's gaze moved between Marcus and Dorian.
"It is possible."
The three fell silent.
A sharp, familiar ache clawed its way through Dorian's chest—an ache he hadn't felt in centuries.
For a heartbeat he was no longer in an abandoned village, but back in that dim, terrible room three hundred years ago, standing helplessly at the foot of his wife's bed while the healers tried—and failed—to save Elora and their newborn child.
That day he had sworn never again to lose control.
Never again to be powerless.
And now, here he was—living the same nightmare a second time.
He cursed the moment he had set foot on human soil.
Dragging himself back to the present, he rubbed a hand over his eyes.
"In that case, you two must return to my father," he said quietly.
"I'll stay here with her. I'll wait for the end."
Filarion and Marcus exchanged a knowing look—the sort that suggested they could read his thoughts as easily as a scroll.
"Forget it," Marcus snorted, and without giving Dorian a chance to protest, he marched into the house and straight toward his own room to wash up.
"I don't think this is your decision to make," Filarion added with a gentle smile, placing a hand on Dorian's shoulder before turning and strolling down the hall toward Leonie's room.
Leaving Dorian alone with the storm gathering inside him.