I didn't laugh.
Didn't speak right away, either.
Just stood there, staring at him.
The frost around us didn't stir. My chest was still. Quiet. No second heartbeat. No burn of magic. Just silence—and the faint memory of a circle drawn in runes.
"You locked me in," I said finally.
Lirian didn't deny it. "I did."
I took a slow step forward. My voice wasn't sharp—just flat, edged with the weight of hindsight.
"You were afraid I'd lose control."
He nodded.
Another pause. The creature beside him—the pup, grown now—watched me without a sound.
I studied Lirian's face, searching for smugness or guilt. There was none. Just that same unreadable calm. That same caution.
And the thing was… I couldn't even blame him.
The memory of that frenzy still clawed at the edges of my thoughts. The taste of blood, the pulse of that second heartbeat, the way it had all felt so right at the time. So natural. Like it had always been waiting beneath my skin, coiled and patient.
It hadn't come from nowhere.
It had been there the whole time. Lurking. Brewing.
And Lirian had seen it long before I had.
"I thought you were being dramatic," I said, crossing my arms. "Talking in riddles. Treating me like a danger before I'd even done anything."
"I thought I may have been wrong," he said.
I met his eyes. "You weren't."
He dipped his head slightly, not in triumph, but something closer to acknowledgment. Respect, maybe.
"Irritating," I muttered.
Lirian raised a brow. "What is?"
"You." I gestured vaguely to the hall. "All this. You were right, and I hate that."
His smirk returned, faint and frustrating.
"If it helps," he said, "I took no pleasure in it."
I rolled my eyes. "That's even worse."
The tension between us loosened a notch. Not gone, but shifted—settling into something that wasn't quite trust. Not yet.
But I wasn't burning with anger anymore.
I was tired.
Tired of guessing. Tired of not knowing what I was. Tired of walking blind into my own skin.
Lirian seemed to sense the change. His gaze drifted past me, toward the frost-covered chamber.
"You held on longer than most," he said. "Longer than I expected."
I looked down at my hands. They didn't shake.
"Barely," I replied. "It didn't feel like holding on."
"Still," he said. "You're alive."
I wasn't sure what to say to that.
Alive.
It sounded simple. Clean.
But it didn't feel like it.
I stepped past him, not quite brushing his shoulder, and stared out into the ruins beyond. The frost-coated archways, the toppled statues, the carvings I couldn't read. Everything here felt ancient. Heavy.
So did I.
Lirian followed in silence. The creature padded beside him, never straying far.
"How long was I asleep?" I asked, not turning.
"A season," he said. "More, maybe."
That sank in slowly. I didn't flinch, but my fingers curled in thought. A season. Long enough for the pup to grow. Long enough for the frost to settle over everything.
"I thought it might be longer."
"You nearly didn't wake at all," he said quietly. "Some don't."
I looked at him then. "But you stayed."
He nodded once.
I didn't thank him. Didn't know if I could. Not yet.
Instead, I crossed to one of the pillars and laid my hand against it. Runes stretched across its base, half-buried in ice. Sharp. Strange. They weren't just decorations—they meant something. I could feel it.
But I didn't understand any of it.
"They're not draconic," Lirian said behind me.
I didn't turn. "How can you tell?"
"The structure's wrong," he said. "Too precise. Too clean. Draconic script flows. It surges and twists with the magic running through it. This…" I heard him step closer. "This was carved for permanence."
I traced a line with my fingertip, careful not to press too hard. The rune beneath my hand didn't glow. Didn't hum. But it felt like it was watching me.
"Then what is it?" I asked.
"I don't know," he said. "But it's older than anything dragons ever built."
I turned then, brows drawn. "Older than dragons?"
Lirian nodded. "Yes."
"That's not possible," I said. "Dragons are—were—the oldest. That's what we were taught. Even the humans say so."
He gave a quiet breath of amusement. "Dragons like that story. Makes them feel untouchable."
And I believed it, I thought..
I glanced back at the rune. "So this place was here before them?"
"Long before," he said. "The fortress, the language… it all predates the rise of draconic rule. No dragon built this."
A chill scraped along my spine. Not from the cold. Something else.
"So who did?"
His gaze lingered on the carvings. "Something stronger, maybe. Or wiser. Your mother may have an idea but... she buried it here for a reason."
I swallowed.
The silence between us stretched again, this time not strained—just heavy. Like the runes around us had drawn breath and were waiting.
Then Lirian added, "I didn't bring you here by accident."
I met his eyes. "No?"
Lirian shook his head. "No."
He stepped closer, boots whispering against the frost-covered floor. The pup followed without sound, shadowing his every move.
"I didn't know what this place was when I brought you here," he said. "Still don't really."
I tilted my head slightly. "But you suspect?"
"Enough to worry. Enough to hope," he replied. "Your mother built her domain atop this ruin. Not beside it. Not around it. On top of it."
"Why?" I asked.
"That's the question, isn't it?" Lirian murmured, his gaze trailing over the runes. "To bury it? To guard it? Or to claim it?"
A long silence passed between us. My thoughts tangled in frost and stone.
"She's never spoken of it?" I asked.
"Not once," he said. "She forbade anyone from coming near. Sent others to die rooting out nearby threats but left this place untouched. Even I wasn't told what it was. Only that if she caught me inside it, I wouldn't be missed."
"And yet here you are," I muttered.
His mouth twitched. "Here we are."
I studied the pillar again, fingers hovering just above the rune. "You are taking a risk bringing me here."
"I didn't know what else to do," he admitted. "You were slipping."
He paused "Your magic scared me. Wild, and difficult to read but also potent. I thought… maybe this place would hold you long enough to satiate you."
"And if it didn't?"
"Then I would have buried you here," he said without hesitation. "And sealed the ruin behind me and run."
His words didn't sting. They just sat there—cold, like everything else around us.
"I don't know if that's comforting or horrifying."
Lirian gave a soft grunt. "Why not both?"
I huffed, turning from the pillar. "You're a real joy."
"It's been said."
We moved deeper into the ruins. Arched ceilings stretched overhead, ribs of stone etched with frost and runes, ancient symbols caught in half-light. My feet moved without thought, slow and deliberate. The silence between us shifted again—no longer heavy, just waiting.
Then, at last, he asked, "What about you?"
I glanced at him, unsure what he meant.
"Before all this," he said. "Who were you?"
I hesitated.
There wasn't shame, exactly—but there was weight.
"Elias," I said. "That was my name."
Lirian didn't react. Just waited.
"I was a sellsword," I continued. "No master. No oaths. Just enough steel to keep moving and enough coin to forget why."
"Why?" he asked. "With your potential I am suprised one of the Elven clans did not seek you out. Gifted humans seem to be some of their favorite pets now."
"Because I had to be," I said. "Because staying meant being ground down. Because I thought I could be more than what I was born into."
I stopped walking. Rested a hand against one of the frost-glazed walls.
"My mother died young," I said. The words came slower now, not heavy—but careful. "Too young to see what we became."
Lirian didn't interrupt.
"My father was a soldier. One of the border legions. He came back from the war with more scars than skin. Didn't talk much after that. When he did…" I hesitated, eyes tracing the edges of the rune. "It was usually with his fists. Or whatever he could grab."
A breath slipped from between my teeth. I didn't realize how tight my jaw had been until I let it go.
"One night, he shattered a bottle across my face. I still remember the sound more than the pain." I tapped my temple absentmindedly. "Didn't stick around after that."
Lirian's expression didn't change. But he listened—truly listened. It was in the way his body stilled. The way his eyes never wandered.
"I ran," I said. "Thought I'd make something of myself. Thought I'd be strong enough to come back for her."
Lirian tilted his head, just slightly.
"My sister," I added. "She was just a kid. And I left her behind."
Silence settled between us again. A different kind this time.
Regret crawled up my throat like bile.
"I told myself I'd earn enough to get her out. That I'd find a place for us. But the longer I was gone, the easier it became to just… keep going."
The rune beneath my hand felt colder.
"I never went back."
Lirian didn't offer pity. Just silence.
"I told myself I'd find something better. Something real. But I never did. One job turned into ten. Ten into years. Somewhere along the way, I forgot I was supposed to stop."
I looked down at my fingers. The hand was hers but still, I couldn't help but remember the feeling of steel in my hand.
"But I wasn't a good person, Lirian. I didn't help people. I didn't fight for causes. I fought for food. Shelter. Gold."
"Then you lived," he said simply.
"Barely," I muttered. "And not well."
"That doesn't make you weak," he said. "It makes you human."
I gave him a look. "Was that a compliment?"
He shrugged. "Take it however you want."
I smiled, barely. Then let it fade.
"So what now?"
Lirian turned away from the wall and gestured toward the hall. "Now, we teach you how not to lose yourself."
"To magic?"
"To magic."