In the dead of night, silhouettes from a soft ember glow danced against Emery's skin. He gazed at it with tired eyes, observing as it flickered in his open palm. The light dimmed, and he pulled within himself for Magic's Light, adding more fuel to the dying light. His fingertips curled in, flicking out quickly. First, it hissed, then a spark emerged before the flame grew. It immediately folded in on itself, smothering into nearly nothing. But again, he relit it. 

The fire twirled above his skin, dulling faster each time he added to the flame. And he pulled for more fire once more until, eventually, Emery could feel his heart race faster with each weakening attempt. 

Breathing became an unbearable chore as if inhaling volcanic ash, blistering and dry, an intense searing black on his withered lungs. Beads of sweat broke like tears down his temple, descending his jawline and gritted teeth. His muscles ached as if someone were wringing him of his blood. That was when he completely stopped breathing. Paralyzed by the pain, he focused on the faint heartbeat in his palm. Veins pulsed against his temple, and he squeezed his diaphragm. He refused to let it fail and begged for it not to go out. Because if it did, he knew he wouldn't be able to reignite it this time. When he couldn't hold his breath anymore, he hissed out a long, agitated breath, and the flame finally died.

His fingers curled in his empty palm. Shaking, his lungs persisted in seething with each shallow breath, but at least his chest no longer felt so constricted.

"Fuck," he hissed, folding his arms close to his chest and hiding his face into his sleeves. 

When he was younger, he had spent a good portion of his life trying to reconnect with the magic he'd lost. Hours spent pouring over books in the Archivers library, researching and practicing in the knight's courtyard as Monroe had. Little good it did him. He couldn't even pinpoint why his connection had severed in the first place, let alone how to rekindle it. 

He would always return to his room as big a disappointment as when he'd left. All that work and nothing to show for it. It wasn't as if he didn't have talent like Nadia had or worked his ass off like Monroe. He had been a prodigy before his future was stolen from him. Every waking minute of his life was dedicated to studying and training his magic. 

Rage boiled inside, erupting once he'd closed the door of his room. Before he could contain himself, he threw his fist into the stone wall. Flesh ripped from his knuckles, blood smearing the skin and rock, but he could barely feel the pain over his screams. He hadn't stopped until Nadia ran in and pried him away from the wall. Had it not been for his sister's magic, he probably would not have pulled his shattered knuckles out of his wrist.

Now he only felt numb. He was worthless and unbelievably pathetic, incapable of protecting his country the way he had dreamed of doing since he was a kid. Back when he still had magic. He shook his head, groaning at his poisonous thoughts; I still have magic. It's just weaker. Squeezing his eyes shut, he did what he could to bury his irritation. 

Now the Healer was getting inside his head, just like Monroe always did. 

Anger melted from him as he thought. He remembered when Monroe was honored with the title Vazeer. Their mother had cooked a family dinner, which she rarely ever did. He remembered the praise his mother showered over his sister, giving her everything she asked for. And Emery… After he lost his connection, he was no longer something to be proud of. Emery was ignored as if he held no value to her without his magic. When she died in the war, it had been three years since they were in the same room. He couldn't say he felt particularly distraught over her death. It felt like losing an acquaintance, not his own flesh and blood. He had felt guilty and confused, then. Elsie was his mother, and he had at least a few good memories to mourn.

Emery once considered that God must be punishing him for his sinful relationship with Arthur, but his connection had severed several years before his father bought Arthur. And Arthur had been his first attraction, kiss, first… everything. But perhaps God was angry that he was interested in men the way he should have been interested in women. 

A stone slipped from Emery's fingers with a thunk, and he gazed at the ripples in the water.

"You look like you're about to cry."

Startled, his gaze snapped to the source of the voice, his nerves on edge. Emerald eyes pierced through the night, seemingly glowing under the light of a pale moon. "I'm not," Emery glared, instinctively wiping the corners of his eyes where he knew water was welling. "Why are you not asleep?" 

The thief yawned, his eyes drifting lazily toward Monroe's tent. "I'm not one to complain about such a generous host, but my bed is as hard as a tree trunk, my throat is an arid desert, and the air is a bitter freeze." 

"I can't unchain you." Even if he wanted to, he wasn't a Farite, a metal manipulator. He was barely a Purengis. But there was at least something he could do for the thief. Back in through the canvas flaps of his tent, Emery returned with a metal bottle in his hands, courtesy of his brother. All of them had one…well, most of them, anyway. 

Tracking back through the tall grass, his boots sank into the mud with each step; he stood over the thief. Kneeling, he placed the metal bottle in the thief's icy hand and observed Silas's features closely. The Ezterrian's pale skin had gotten paler within the last few days. Black circles painted beneath his otherwise beautifully green eyes, and his lips chapped, turning blue against the air's freeze. "I suppose the nights can get cold," Emery mumbled.

Silas pulled his knees in and pushed himself back against the tree. "How are you not freezing to death?"   

Emery shrugged. "Having awakened to Fire has its perks, no matter how strong the connection." He frowned, hearing Fynn's words cycle relentlessly through his thoughts again. Since his mother's passing, he hadn't let others' disappointment get to him. Or, he tried to, at least. That was why he avoided Monroe and Master Arx when he could. The library had become his sanctuary in that regard. Quiet, empty, and full of knowledge, the books would never judge him for being weak. 

"So, it would seem." Very awkwardly, Silas attempted to drink. His fingers trembled, and no matter how many times he tried, he couldn't get the bottle close enough to his lips. 

Sighing, Emery took it back, holding it to allow the thief a drink. Silas jolted back suddenly, practically inhaling the water, coughing as a few drops spilled into his lap. "That is freezing." 

"I'm sorry. I can't make it warmer." Although he might have been able to before he exhausted himself, he couldn't feel his magic anymore.  

Silas shook, chuckling. "That's not your fault. Magic isn't natural for mortals, anyway." 

That didn't ease the discontent in Emery's heart, and it certainly didn't hush the voices in his head from dragging him further down into self-pity. "In Carpathia, especially with a family like mine, magic means everything. Monroe, Nadia, and I were expected to be prodigies. My mother was a talented Purengis, a fire manipulator like me. She would have replaced Master Arx as the King's right hand." He didn't speak of his mother often. Not with Monroe and certainly not with Nadia. 

Emery sank into the grass across from Silas, exhausted. "My mother died in Litis when the first stone was reported." He watched as Silas continued to shiver from the cold. For him, there was a bit of a chill but nothing more. Without thinking, he inched closer to Silas, their touch was only a single movement apart, and he didn't stop closing the distance between them until Silas flinched away. "Sorry. You look cold."

"I am." Silas pushed back against the tree, his heels dug into the dirt, and his chains rattled tightly against his arms and torso, restricting his movements.