Chapter 7

I 'm back in my cell. Daylight spears across the room in a slantwise blade of brilliance.

Everything hurts.

I'm naked; no surprise there.

I cast my glance down my body, assessing visually before even attempting to move. Scars crisscross my body, bullet hole divots, sword slices and stab wounds. They're all in the process of healing, so there's that, at least.

I wiggle my toes: hurts.

Flex my legs: aches.

Suck in a deep breath: agony; my ribs were likely broken and are now merely cracked or bruised.

Roll my head on my neck: excruciating.

I still have blood in my system, so my body will continue to heal.

Prana? A raging, boiling, vicious, seething ocean. Overfull. Effervescent in my veins. Begging for release.

I see the parasite of the mage-cuff magic prowling, hunting, waiting for me to draw upon my prana. It looks like nothing so much as coiled ropes of red barbed wire, slithering and skulking like a serpent, venomous and ravenous.

I hurt too much to test it at the moment. I work to a sitting position, groaning and whimpering at each inch of progress—by the time I'm sitting up on the cot, I'm nearly sobbing from the pain.

I rub my face with both hands—and stop, surprised. The rippled, ruined texture from testing wards has been healed. Thank the Blood for that.

I pass my hand over my scalp, and once again I'm pleasantly surprised: I have hair. A couple of inches at most, but it's something. Better than being cue-ball bald. I assume it will grow at a magical rate for as long as I have blood and vitality—or rakta and prana, I suppose I should start saying.

I reach out for Caspian, seeking the thread of our connection—excruciating pain lances through my brain, so sudden and so intense it takes my breath away and leaves me sweating, sobbing, and gasping—the ward. It's been updated, it seems. Punishing even an attempt to breach it.

I close my eyes and breathe, let the pain subside. Catch my breath.

Perhaps I should just take it easy for a minute or two—my whole body aches. Even my skin hurts.

I just breathe for a while, feeling my healing powers do their thing slowly but surely.

The beam of light shifts across the floor inch by inch and then fades, dissolving into shadow.

Finally, I feel strong enough to consider trying my feet. Whimpering through gritted teeth, I sit up, shift my legs around, and plant my feet on the floor—that takes everything I have for a moment or two, leaving me sweating and gasping. Once I've caught my breath, I inch forward to the edge of the cot, place one hand on the wall to my right and the other on the edge of the cot and push myself upright. I make it, but oh, the cost. Tears slip down my cheeks as I whimper wordlessly.

I decide I can make it twelve feet across the room and back—parallel to the doorway because I simply do not have it in me to test the ward. Not after what happened from simply seeking my bloodmate.

Step, step, step—it's a slow, agonizing process but I make it to the far wall, weeping openly and gagging for breath as if I've run a marathon at full sprint.

Now I just have to make it back.

Yay.

Nope.

I make it halfway and my legs simply give out, and I collapse to the floor, cracking my head on the stone so hard I see stars.

Darkness swallows me, again.

I rise to consciousness still on the floor, directly beneath the beam of light—I slept through a whole day, it seems. No dreams, no journey in The Dreaming. No Wolf.

God, was that really Caleb? It's hard to remember the whole dream, but it felt like him. It certainly looked like him, but it didn't exactly sound like him.

And why would he help me? Why would our fates be bound together?

The light hurts my eyes, so I roll over with a groan. My hair tickles my eyes and nose—it's grown, then, if it's touching my face.

I can't find it in me to care about my hair.

I drag myself to my cot and climb on, gasping from the effort.

I decide to engage in some academic research—examining the magic of the mage-cuffs. I have to do so carefully, because another jolt of pain like the ward gave me will send me unconscious again, and I have a feeling I've wasted enough time. I feel that clock ticking away in my head—counting up or down, I don't know, and what it's counting for, I also don't know. I just know it's ticking, ticking, ticking, and it fills me with panic, with desperation that gives me the courage to delve inward and start figuring out how to get out of these damn cuffs.

I shudder at the sight of the serpentine coils of evil magic slithering around within me, scudding past the seething ocean of prana—it can't touch it unless I try to use it.

Look closer, find the edges of the magic. Pick apart the glamour.

I see the threads of technique—sort of like an AI program. When: use magic = execute: cause pain.

Simple, effective.

If I can endure the pain, then I may be able to use my magic to destroy it from the inside out. It doesn't seem to do anything to my magic itself, only react to a pull at prana—well, maya, to be precise, since it reacts to any use of maya, whether in the guise of prana, mana, or rakta—by inflicting vicious pain directly into the nervous system.

Delightful. So all I have to do is endure unimaginable pain, on purpose, long enough to destroy the programming of the glamour.

Simple.

And I have to do it before my system uses all the blood in my body; once I'm unblooded, I'll be unable to access my prana, cuffed or not. And god knows I won't be able to get more blood. They won't be making the same mistake twice, something tells me.

"Granddaughter." Elias's voice startles me.

I didn't hear or smell him coming—too focused, I suppose.

"Grandfather." I open my eyes and peer at him. "I was too late."

"Perhaps not."

"They killed…" I choke, bite my lip, and feel rage pulse in me all over again. "I couldn't stop them. I de-partitioned my prana, but not in time."

He tips his head to one side—today, he's dressed in a simple pin-striped suit, gray, with a royal blue tie. He indicates me with a flick of his finger. "No scar."

I frown at him. "What? I'm covered in scars."

"But not a hysterectomy scar."

I glance down at my belly. I see where swords went in, but nothing that would indicate a surgical incision.

"So…I wasn't too late?"

He gives me a sad smile. "You prevented sterilization, yes. I'm sorry for your loss, my child."

I shake my head. "I wasn't ready to be a mother, but they took that choice from me. They murdered…it. Him, or her, or whatever. I don't know. I'm…" I shake my head again and don't bother trying to hide the tears. "I'm so angry, Elias. The rage I feel…it scares me." I look at him. "What did I do? It's all a jumbled blur."

He sighs, and snaps his fingers—a chair materializes, overstuffed, comfortable, old, and worn. He sinks into it and crosses one knee over the other.

"You vaporized over six thousand square feet of rock, Maeve. And that was just the initial vent burst."

"I don't think it was a true vent burst," I say. "Andreas, and Mom's video, both said a vent burst is heatless. There was heat in whatever I did."

He leans forward. "Video? What video?"

I frown. "Mom recorded a video for me after she escaped from your lab compound in Colorado. For Andreas to show me once I'd emerged from the glamour they cast to hide me."

"I should like to see it if you'd allow me."

I regard him. "I don't know that you would, honestly. It's pretty hard to watch."

He clenches his jaw against a wave of powerful emotion. "No less than I deserve. I just…I would give anything, anything , just to see her face, to hear her voice. I would end my life simply for the chance to beg her forgiveness."

He bends over, face in his hands, seeming more human than ever, weary and guilt-ridden.

"Then, once I'm free, I'll let you watch it," I tell him. "But you've been warned—it will not do anything to help your guilt."

"I do not wish to assuage my guilt. I deserve to live with it for the rest of my immortal existence."

I can't help but ache at the pain in his voice. There's no excuse for what he did, but at the same time, I can't say I don't understand, either.

He shakes his head. "Anyway." He sits up straight and composes himself. "You killed four fae doctors, two shifter nurses, and six vampire guards in the initial blast—and you are right, I don't think that was a typical vent burst. What it was, I can't say—only that it was the most powerful of any such venting ever witnessed. It shook the whole mountain. Meliflua, the old fae female in charge of magical security, was also killed in that blast."

"Good."

He tips his head to one side. "I do not disagree. She was nearly as twisted as Calliope. Besides those in the room, an additional eighty personnel on the Council research floor were vaporized. They, I do mourn. They were not innocent, but neither were they party, directly, to your suffering."

I wince. "Fuck."

"And then, after the blast, you went on a killing spree. Twenty fae, eight shifters, and sixteen vampires. You slaughtered them, drained their blood, and absorbed their vitality."

"Over a hundred people?"

He nods. "You did something quite unusual, however."

I can't help a bitter bark of laughter. " More unusual?"

"Yes. Quite a bit more so, in fact. As you said, it was not a true vent burst. In a true vent burst, all of the biological material is vaporized instantly. There is nothing left. Not even a mist of blood, let alone vitality. But you, somehow, managed to absorb their blood and vitality in the instant after the detonation, remotely. And then, during your bloodlust frenzy, you absorbed the blood and vitality of all of your victims, without touching them. Some you did bite and drain, but most…they were found bloodless and husked—without prana or rakta, even though you didn't directly touch them."

"How is that possible?"

A shake of his head. "No one knows."

I sigh. "I'm sorry about the researchers, Grandfather. But the others? They were the enemy. They were coming to hurt me. So, I…" I shake my head, and a phrase bubbles up from somewhere deep inside, and I give it voice. "I sent my enemy into the screaming void."

Elias shoots to his feet with such abrupt force the chair shatters against the wall behind him. "What did you just say?"

I blink, shocked at the vehemence in his tone. "Um…"

"Say it again. Word for word." His eyes are glittering and intense.

"I sent my enemy into the screaming void."

"Who taught you these words?" He steps up to the ward's edge. "It is very, VERY important you tell me the exact, full, precise truth, Maeve."

I shake my head. "No one. I just…the words just sort of…came to me. I don't know. No one taught me."

"Your mother never said them? Are you sure? One hundred percent certain?"

I nod. "Absolutely. It's not something Mom would have said." I stand up and shuffle along the wall for balance. "Why? What's so important about it?"

He waves his hand casually and the chair reassembles in a dim glow of golden-white light. He sits, leans back, and stares into space. His gaze is distant and thoughtful. I opt for silence.

Let him think. He'll answer in his own time. Not like I'm going anywhere.

After what feels like an hour, he speaks in a soft, quiet, thoughtful tone. He's reciting something. "By this blade, I shall send my enemies into the screaming void." A pause, heavy and significant.

Words pulse in my brain, unbidden. "And the void shall sing the final song."

His eyes cut to me. "With this prayer, I shall send my daughter into the singing void."

"And the void shall sing the final song." The response emerges from me, once more unbidden, and tears prick at my eyes.

"She did it," Elias breathes, out loud but not meant for me. "Clever, clever girl. You fucking did it."

"Grandfather? Please explain. What are those words? What do they mean? And why are they just…in my head like that?" I shuffle back to the cot and lower myself slowly, grunting the effort, panting from the ache of movement.

"The words are The Sacred Rites," he answers, gaze once more distant. "They are somewhat out of vogue in this modern era, but for millennia they were a very important part of immortal culture. What you said, ‘I shall send my enemies into the screaming void'—a warrior would say that before waging battle. Usually in the context of a duel. A fae ascetic would say the Rites before a battle, for their army, and the army would say the response. It calls The Dreaming to the battle, so their souls can find Death. The other version—‘With this prayer I send my loved one into the singing void,' we would say at a funeral to send our loved one into Death, so their spirit can be at peace. Superstition, or religion, call it what you will, but they are very powerful and meaningful words."

"So, how do I know them?" I ask.

"Exactly the question, and it provides the last piece of the puzzle." He looks at me. "You are known to perform feats of glamour that should, by all rights, be far, far beyond your skill level. You have the raw power and magical capacity in spades, obviously, but in order to be able to cast the glamours you do, you must be taught how . It is not instinctive. You cannot simply just… know . It is technique, something that requires practice and training. Like learning the cello, or walking a tightrope. Hundreds and thousands of hours of practice…of which you have none. Correct?"

I nod. "Correct. I'd love to learn how to do this stuff on purpose, but it always just seems like when I'm in a really impossible situation, shit just… happens . I just do things, and I don't know how I know how, or why it happens."

"I can now explain, I believe."

I wave a hand. "Well?"

He shakes his head, amazed. "Your mother cast what is known as a demense." Deh-MENTS .

"Demense? What's that?"

"A specific glamour long thought to be impossible. For most magical researchers, it is a thought experiment, no more. The process of actually performing one?" He shakes his head again. "Too complex, requiring too much prana and too much time. And it costs the caster far too much to be worth the effort." He holds up a hand to forestall my questions. "Just…please, allow me to explain in my own way. I have to think this through out loud."

I sit back and let him think.

He looks at me. "You are familiar with the series of mortal stories known as Harry Potter, yes?"

I laugh. "Yes, I'm familiar."

He flips a hand. "A demense is similar in theory to the Horcrux from those stories."

"So, like, pieces of a person's soul imbued into an object?"

"Yes, in theory. But unlike in Harry Potter, it does not provide immortality—seeing as we are immortal anyway—nor does it prevent death. Which is not the same as immortality, by the way. Living forever and being unable to die are two different things. A demense… essentially allows the caster to carve off a small silver of their soul and put it into an object. That object, thereafter, would possess a fraction of a fraction of the caster's essence. Not sentience, but a token of the person. A flavor of the individual. The only known successfully cast demense occurred over a thousand years ago. You've learned about Charlemagne, yes?"

I nod. "Of course. It's been a while, so my memories of the details are sketchy."

"What immortals teach about him—and most mortal history, to be honest—is skewed and wholly inaccurate, largely due to the Treaty. Charlemagne was fae. There are many stories I could tell about him because he was a very, very fascinating man."

"You knew him? Personally?" I ask, shocked.

"Of course. I was one of his chief advisers. He was a remarkably powerful glamourist. It's part of how he accomplished all that he did. He managed to cast a demense on his favorite dagger. The knife, thereafter, never dulled, never rusted, and could not be lost, stolen, or misplaced. Upon Charlemagne's untimely death, that dagger was the source of much controversy. Everyone wanted it, of course. It was believed to possess all sorts of powers—most of which was merely rumor and little else. The only supernatural properties I ever witnessed were those I described—perpetual sharpness, immunity to rust, and the ability to remain with the owner at all times. That last property, Loyalty to Charlemagne, was the source of the contention. He died, and his dagger was fought over by his most powerful generals. The winner, a Shifter warlord, rode away with the dagger, only to have it vanish in the night. He went on a rampage looking for it, thinking someone had stolen it. A grave robber was caught trying to loot Charlemagne's grave much later on, and the dagger was found with the body. It was removed, only to vanish again, found once more in his grave. It was left there, and there it remains to this today, although the exact location of his grave has been lost in the mists of time."

I blink, thinking. "So, you think Mom cast a demense on me? Put a little piece of her soul into me."

He nods. "Yes." A frown. "Well, sort of." He looks at me. "See if you can sharpen your memory of your mother. Do you recall if she seemed to…diminish? In energy, I mean. Meaning, did she seem to be more easily tired, or more prone to reclusiveness as you aged?"

I think back. Eventually, I nod. "Yes, I guess that feels accurate. You said she had a temper, as did Andreas. But I never witnessed it. Only an endless patience and love for me."

"Was she physically affectionate?"

I swallow hard. Blink tears away. "Yes. Very. Constantly."

A nod. A sad look. "Clever, brilliant, brave girl."

I blow out a breath. "Tell me what you're thinking, please."

"She did not cast a demense, as in just one. She cast…oh, possibly thousands . Every little touch, Maeve, could have been a demense. Your whole life, I believe, she spent pouring herself, literally, into you. Emptying herself into you. She must have spent countless exhausting hours preparing the demenses, absorbing as much prana, discreetly, as she possibly could. And then she would hug you, or kiss you, and she would cast the demense. If your immortal nature was suppressed by the glamour she placed on you then you wouldn't have felt it. And you were a child, so you wouldn't have come into your magical abilities yet regardless, mask or no. But without the mask, you'd have at least felt her cast the demense upon you."

He pinches the bridge of his nose and then wipes his face with both hands. "If my guess is correct—and I am nearly one hundred percent certain I am—then it is an accomplishment of historic proportions. More—an accomplishment that can never be replicated. By the time she was caught by the Tribunal and executed, she must have suffered, Maeve. To have carved away so much of herself for so long…she would have been exhausted. No, not just exhausted. Simply…broken. Death may have been a relief. She would have been a mere shadow of herself." A pause. "I wonder if I would have even recognized the woman she was, there at the end?" This last was more to himself.

"Jesus, Mom," I whisper. " Why ?"

It was rhetorical but he answers anyway. "To empower you so might accomplish your destiny. It is, and always has been, your fate to change the world. She gave you every last part of herself so that you would have the best chance to succeed."

My eyes burn, and tears fall—accompanied by sobs. "Mom, god . I never knew. I never knew." I think back. Whisper as memories percolate. "She always read me a story, every night, when I was little. Until middle school. She would pull me onto her lap and read to me and kiss me goodnight. And then, in middle school and high school when I was too old to be read to, she would just sit on my bed and talk to me, and braid my hair. The nightly ritual…it was everything to me. Even as a preteen and teenager trying to find myself and acting too cool for my mom, I always, always treasured our…our nightly ritual." I'm crying so hard I can't see.

"That was the demense, then." He meets my eyes. "Have you dreamed of her? A dream which perhaps felt more real than a dream?"

"I'm familiar with The Dreaming, Grandfather. And yes, I have. Why?" I answer my own question. "The demense. She somehow used it to put part of herself into The Dreaming. She said, in the video, that she was looking into it, finding a way that she could talk to me…after she died."

"Yes. Precisely. She wove a portion of her essence into The Dreaming and tethered it to you, so she could speak to you, one last time. But she lives on in you. Not as a ghost. She is not a sentient thing within you. There are just…a thousand, thousand disparate fractions of herself embedded in who you are, in your mind and body and magic. Enough so that you are able to cast glamours beyond your technical proficiency. Enough so that even certain specific things, like the Sacred Rites, emerge from the portions of her spirit within you and make themselves known in your consciousness. I taught her the Sacred Rites when she was just a girl, and we would visit our ancestors, and light a candle and say the Rites for their souls. That was an important bond between us."

"So, you're sure she's not….there? Inside me somewhere? Just waiting for me to, like, do something to get her out?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "I'm sure. The Dream you had of her was her last moment of sentience. Now, she lives on in you through your magic. And in who you are. Because, Maeve? You are so much like her. So much."

I weep quietly for a long time, and Grandfather Elias merely sits with me. Doesn't comfort me, because there is no comfort. Just his presence.

And, despite it all, I'm glad he's here with me.

After a while, he rises, snaps his fingers to make the chair vanish, and straightens his suit, his hair. "You must be free, Maeve. They will execute you, now. When, I can't say—the council will meet to vote on it at some point soon and then will meet again to decide when. Immortals do nothing swiftly, which works in your favor, but in this case, I suspect your time is short. You must break those." He gestures at the cuffs. I cannot tell you how because I do not know myself, but also because my oath of loyalty to the Council prevents it. You must break them, and you will."

I stand up and get as close as I can to the ward. "Thank you, Grandfather."

He frowns. "For what?"

"Being here with me. Explaining all this to me."

He nods. "Perhaps one day we will be reunited, without wards and walls between us. It would be the greatest privilege of my long life to know you better. To spend time with you simply as your grandfather."

And again, tears leak out. "What do fae children call their grandfather?"

He smiles. "It varies by culture and by family—some traditions are kept along fae lines, and others along national, cultural, or ethnic lines. I called my grandfather 'elderfather,' in a loose translation. We spoke Old English, then, of course. I suppose a colloquial, modern version would be…Aeldfar." He pronounces it eld-fahr , with a slight roll of the final ‘r.' "It's not exact, but my Old English is rusty. I haven't spoken it in, ohh, at least a thousand years." Another smile for me. "It would please me to no end if you called me Aeldfar."

"I shall, then. Will we see each other again soon, Aeldfar?"

He nods. "Yes, we will. But not here, in your cell. Your time is short. You must free yourself, at all costs. The fate of all hangs in the balance. Zirae and his faction are wrong, Maeve. You must break the world in order to save it."

"I keep hearing that, but no one will tell me what it means or where it comes from."

"It's an old fae prophecy that dates back to…oh, gods…at least a thousand years before the Christ. Likely more. The seer who spoke the prophecy is forgotten, but the words are not."

"What are the words, then?"

He gazes at the ceiling, thinking, and then speaks, intoning the words. "‘When the eagles of iron fall from the sky, and those of the Blood cry war brother against brother, then will the WorldBreaker come. Her hair will be as white as the driven snow. She will wield her maya with the spirit of her mother. She is the WorldBreaker. She is The Once-Mortal queen, and all shall bow, but not before the rivers run red and the streets flood scarlet. She shall know Death, and Death shall know her. She shall have a mate of fang and a mate of fur. She is the WorldBreaker, and the Once-Mortal Queen.'"

Silence, then, a silence which shivers, as if the words themselves still hold power.

I remember the vampire who came, once. He called me The Once-Mortal Queen.

Aeldfar isn't done, though. "The prophecy is well known among most immortals, more so among the elders than the younger generations—elders in this case meaning a thousand years old or more. Those younger ones call you the WorldBreaker not because of the prophecy, but because of what you've already set in motion."

I swallow hard. "Which is what?"

He hesitates. "War, Maeve. Civil war. Global war. It's not open warfare, yet, but…it won't be long. Factions are aligning. Immortals are proclaiming themselves publicly. There have been executions and riots."

Dizziness washes over me. "What? You're joking."

He frowns at me. "I do not jest, child, not about such things."

I shake my head. "I…I didn't—I didn't mean to…"

Sympathy floods his features. "No, you did not intend it. Someone recorded what happened in New York—your speech, the attack, the battle, all of it was livestreamed and went viral on mortal social media. Someone who knew the prophecy referred to you as the WorldBreaker in one such video, and it stuck. So now, among mortals and immortals alike, you are the WorldBreaker."

"But The Once-Mortal Queen? What does that mean?"

A shake of his head. "Prophecies rarely come true linearly. Your hair isn't white yet, for example, just that one strand. Iron eagles I assume means airplanes, but as far as I know, none of them have fallen from the sky. And a mate of fur and of fang? That means you'd have two mates—a vampire and a shifter. That would also be a first—bonded mates are singularly exclusive. No immortal has ever been mate-bonded to more than one person—or at least not that has ever been reported, or even rumored—but that's what is meant in the original text—the word used means specifically a bonded mate, not just a chosen life-partner as is so common among all immortals, but a true, magically-bound mate."

"I'm bloodmated to Caspian."

"Yes, but not a shifter."

I shake my head. "No, not a shifter."

I think of the wolf who came to me in The Dreaming, who rescued me from the shallows of Death. Caleb? How could he be my mate? I love Caspian.

Caleb brought me here and delivered me to these people.

My head spins, and I push those thoughts aside. "I don't want to break the world, Aeldfar."

"Of course not. But such is your fate. You must have the courage to face it. To do what is necessary."

"Innocent people are dying, if what you say is true."

"Who is innocent, Maeve? No one. Innocent people die every day. You can't stop that. Things are already set in motion—if you abandon your destiny now, it will all be in vain."

I shake my head. "How, though? How do I do it? How do I get out of these ?" I shake the cuffs, so the chain rattles. "And if I do, how do I get out of here? The ward almost killed me."

"One step at a time." He smiles at me. "Perhaps the answer will come to you in a dream." He smiles once more. "I must go. I believe in you, Maeve, my precious granddaughter. I have faith. Be strong."

He leaves then, and I'm alone once more.

With my thoughts…

With the spirit of my mother, somewhere in my soul.

With my fate—as The WorldBreaker.