The study was quiet, save for the crackling of the fire Vane had lit and the ominous, high-pitched whining of the silver collar around Elian's neck.
Elian sat on the edge of the heavy ironwood desk, his hands gripping the edge until his knuckles turned white. The collar felt like it was shrinking. The hairline fracture they had caused in the Archives had disrupted the enchantment, turning the containment field inward. It wasn't just silencing him anymore; it was vibrating against his larynx, heating up like a wire carrying too much current.
"Chin up," Vane murmured, stepping between Elian's spread knees.
Elian obeyed, tilting his head back to expose his throat. He stared up at the ceiling, counting the beams, trying not to think about the fact that the most dangerous man in the kingdom was holding a dagger against his jugular.
"The locking mechanism is fused," Vane explained, his voice a low rumble in his chest. He was so close Elian could feel the heat radiating from his armor. "If I try to pry it, the failsafe will trigger and it will strangle you. I have to cut the rune-weave directly."
"Just do it," Elian rasped, the vibration of the collar making his voice sound metallic. "It's burning."
"I know," Vane said softness. "Hold still. Don't swallow. Don't breathe."
Vane raised the dagger. It was a thin, needle-point stiletto made of the same void-steel as his sword. It absorbed the light from the fireplace, looking like a shard of solidified night.
Vane slid the tip of the blade between the silver band and Elian's skin.
Elian hissed. The metal was cold, a sharp contrast to the hot silver. He felt the tip of the knife press against his pulse point. One slip, one sneeze, one tremor in Vane's hand, and Elian would bleed out on the Commander's desk.
Vane didn't tremble. His hand was rock steady. He leaned in closer, his eyes narrowed in absolute focus.
"I'm going to use a shadow-dampener," Vane whispered, his breath ghosting over Elian's jaw. "To absorb the shock when the rune breaks. It will feel cold. Freezing."
"I trust you," Elian whispered back.
Vane's eyes flicked down to Elian's for a split second. The intensity in them knocked the wind out of Elian. It wasn't the look of a surgeon; it was the look of a man holding something precious that he was terrified of breaking.
"Ready," Vane murmured.
Vane's free hand came up to cup the back of Elian's neck, holding him steady. His thumb stroked the base of Elian's skull, a grounding, possessive touch.
Vane twisted the knife.
SNAP.
The sound was like a dry twig breaking, amplified ten times.
A shockwave of cold shadow erupted from the knife, instantly swallowed by Vane's magic before it could freeze Elian's skin. The silver collar split in two, falling away from Elian's neck with a heavy clatter onto the desk.
Elian gasped, sucking in a ragged breath. The pressure was gone. The heat was gone.
He reached up to touch his neck. The skin felt raw, bruised, and incredibly sensitive.
"Don't touch it," Vane ordered gently, catching Elian's hand before he could scratch at the irritation. "Your hands are dirty."
Vane dropped the dagger onto the desk. He didn't step back. Instead, he stayed where he was, boxing Elian in. He raised his own hands—gloveless now—and tilted Elian's face to the side to inspect the damage.
"Bruising," Vane noted, his thumb grazing the red line left by the metal. "And a friction burn. But the skin is unbroken."
He looked back at Elian. They were breathing the same air. The adrenaline of the procedure was fading, replaced by a heavy, suffocating tension. Elian's heart was hammering against his ribs, and he knew Vane could see the pulse jumping in the hollow of his newly freed throat.
"You have a habit of getting burned," Vane murmured, his gaze dropping to Elian's lips.
"You have a habit of saving me," Elian countered, his voice barely a whisper.
Vane's pupils dilated. He leaned in, his face inches from Elian's. The smell of sandalwood and iron was overwhelming. Elian's eyelids fluttered shut. He leaned forward, drawn by the magnetic pull of the man who had hunted him, then healed him.
Vane's hand tightened on the back of Elian's neck. He tilted his head, closing the final inch.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound was sharp and polite, coming from the main door of the study.
Vane froze. Elian's eyes snapped open.
The spell shattered.
Vane pulled back abruptly, a curse hissing through his teeth. He turned away, his chest heaving slightly as he regained his composure. He snatched the broken halves of the collar from the desk and threw them into the fire.
"Enter!" Vane barked, his voice regaining its icy command.
The door opened. A young page boy stood there, trembling in his boots. He held a silver tray with a sealed scroll.
"Com... Commander," the boy stammered, keeping his eyes on the floor. "A missive from Lord Corin."
Vane went still. He walked over and snatched the scroll from the tray. "Dismissed."
The boy scrambled away, closing the door behind him.
Vane broke the wax seal—a crest of a Shield and Gate. He scanned the parchment quickly.
"Is it him?" Elian asked, sliding off the desk. His legs felt shaky, and his neck still tingled where Vane had touched him.
"It's an invitation," Vane said, his face grim. "Or a summons. It seems Lord Corin heard about the excitement at the banquet. He is hosting a private salon tonight at his estate in the Gilded Cage. He specifically requested the High Commander... and his 'interesting new servant.'"
Vane looked at Elian. "He knows. Or he suspects."
"Is it a trap?" Elian asked.
"Everything in Aethelgard is a trap," Vane said, tossing the scroll into the fire. "But it's a trap we have to walk into. Corin was the Captain of the Guard. If anyone kept records of the Midwife's location, it's him."
Vane walked over to the wardrobe in the corner of the room. He pulled out a new outfit. It wasn't a uniform. It was formal wear. A tunic of deep midnight blue velvet, embroidered with silver thread, and tailored trousers.
"Dress," Vane ordered, tossing the clothes to Elian. "Tonight, you aren't just a servant. You are a curiosity. Corin will want to test you."
"Test me how?" Elian asked, catching the velvet.
"Corin is a Truth-Seer," Vane said, turning to check his own reflection in the mirror, adjusting his collar to hide the erratic pulse in his own neck. "He can smell lies. If we go in there, we have to tell him the truth. And if he is loyal to the Queen..."
Vane turned back, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"...then we will have to kill him before he can alert the Guards."
Elian looked at the fine clothes in his hands. He touched his bruised throat.
"From the frying pan into the fire," Elian muttered.
"No," Vane corrected, a dark smirk returning to his face. "Into the lion's den. But luckily, I brought a wolf."