In the still of the room, the pressure bearing down on me felt slightly less crushing. With the bathroom door closed, the chain wrapped around my fist had dulled from its ethereal glow to a faint, indigo gloom; it stretched to the door, disappearing through the thick wood as if it were little more than a ghost.

I grimaced, flexing my fingers and shuddering as the links of the chain shifted with a cold, oily slither across my skin. They radiated dark, unnatural magic; it kept my nerves constantly on edge, feeding the pulsing of pain deep in my head. Curling my fingers tightly over the chain only the arcanist and I would be able to see or feel, I tried to convince myself again that this had been the right thing to do.

Closing my eyes, I listened to the pipes groan. They always complained at first; the building was ancient, bastardized with the modern plumbing and custom wiring, and sometimes it felt as if this ancient home tried to deny them. But after a moment the sound mellowed out into the low, even rush of falling water. I could hear the small splatters as the arcanist moved, and underneath it the raw, ragged sound of the man’s breathing; still carrying a trace of the quickness of panic, but beginning to calm the same way as the pounding in my head.

I swallowed, grinding my palm against my forehead and allowing the familiar pain to ground me before I peeled my eyes open. Looking around the room, I wondered what the alchemist saw here. It was far from the Hedquist aesthetic of sharp blacks and unwelcoming chill. Though there wasn’t much in the room, dominated by the large bed and a simple nightstand and dresser that matched its rustic design. I had brought as much warmth into the room as I could; the bedding was a deep reddish brown, layers of blankets providing a relief from the relentless cold of the manor. 

There was nothing personal, nothing to say this room was claimed- but it was mine. My small sanctum carefully guarded away from the bitter truth of the family waiting just above. My own space, curated in secret, where I didn’t have to compromise anything; the one place I could control. The world above could burn, my grandfather could rot, and Logan could break both of his hands trying to breach this space I held sacred. But in the end, it would still be mine… and if the world ended, at least I could finally breathe freely. 

The heavy clunk of the shower shutting off, the pipes giving a squealing rattle, jerked me out of the wistful thoughts. I straightened my spine, stiffening my shoulders, too much of my attention devoted to listening to the gentle rustle of fabrics as the arcanist dried himself off and dressed in the clothes I had given him. 

When the door edged open, the little arcanist did not emerge right away. I could see the faintest vision of bare toes under the door frame, the brush of a shadow barely extending across my floor in the crack of light. It made the corners of my mouth twitch upwards despite myself. 

I was well aware of how the arcanist must feel. He stood there deliberating, gathering the nerve to cross a threshold belonging to his captor. Washed and wearing old clothes I never had the heart to get rid of, he would appear as a well kept pet- one who might be treated well by his master, if he were lucky.

Any other prisoner would have been trying to earn my favor by now, bowing on hands and knees as they begged for mercy from a Hedquist alchemist… one who would never be able to give it. Instead, he hesitated. Such a small, defiant thing to take the time to compose himself as I waited for him. I respected it, though I doubted he would appreciate the sentiment.

It was almost a surprise when the little arcanist finally stepped out.

His head was down, hands clenched tightly in the rolled sleeves of the burgundy button down I had given him. Though it was from my late teenage years, it was still too large for the slight man; it slipped down one slender shoulder, showing a scatter of faint freckles against porcelain skin. His blue-black hair was darker with the wet, leaving fat droplets on the shirt as he tipped his head slightly. When he stepped forward it was a shuffle; even with the worn jeans rolled up three times, they were still puddled around his feet.

The little arcanist looked awkward and uncomfortable, teeth gritted and shoulders tense like an alleycat with their hackles up. The clench of his fingers seemed like claws at the ready as his stormy eyes met mine in a silent glower.

“You’re not going to try to attack me?” I raised an eyebrow, letting my gaze linger on him- looking for any signs of unsteadiness or weakness. There were none; if anything the tension seemed to strengthen him, his wariness like an armor he was well used to. I had no doubt it was, if I was right about his identity.

He scoffed, one hand raising to rub at his throat. The rune I had drawn in my own blood had been washed off, but there was a pale shadow of it against his skin. It pleased me in a way I didn’t want to examine, burying the feeling under my clinical examination. “I’m not stupid,” the arcanist answered, his voice sharp and short. He straightened himself, and for a moment he seemed to carry the grace I had imagined was hiding behind his malnourished figure. 

Then his fine features marred with a snarl as he tangled his fingers in the chain of the leash that extended between us. It thrummed with the contact, a gentle vibration that warned me its subject might try to escape. “You’re a Hedquist. And even if you weren’t, this magic is some high-level shit. As sick as it is, I know better than to try to fight off somebody who can pull it off.” At least not directly. The words went unspoken, but I knew as well as he did that he’d stand an even chance if I wasn’t prepared for it.

I tried to hide my smirk, but knew I didn’t quite manage as he bristled. “At least you’re clever.” These weren’t the words I had practiced for days, and I could tell they weren’t helping to lower his guard. But he wasn’t what I had expected. He had been sold, chained, dragged to my home and forced into my clothes- and yet he still gnashed his teeth with every bit of rage he could muster in that small body. I had seen grown men break for less; my reckless plan seemed far more realistic with this man standing in front of me, practically vibrating with the desire to wrap his hands around my neck.

My breath came out on a soft sigh, and I loosened my grip on the leash wrapped around my hand. It drooped, slacking between us, but the arcanist didn’t relax; his eyes narrowed further, with the distrust of an animal waiting to be hurt. “I’m waiting.” The lash of his voice broke through the silence. The arcanist’s arms crossed over his slim chest, gray eyes metallic in their hardness.

It made me blink before a soft chuckle left my throat. “You think you’re in a position to make demands of me?”

“I think you clearly want something from me,” he snapped back, every word prickling with a dangerous intent, “Or you wouldn’t have brought me here. You said you’ve been tracking me for months… that you know who I am.” His defensive walls were miles high, the arcanist’s shoulders stiff and his entire posture screaming that he was prepared to flee at a moment’s notice.

I couldn’t even blame the arcanists for being terrified once they knew who I was, and this one had more justification than any of the others. “That’s right,” I responded, fighting to keep my tone cool and even- to not betray the flutter in my stomach as we approached the sales pitch I had rehearsed through all of those months of tracking. “You were very thorough in covering your tracks, and most of the world has no idea you exist- or what you’ve been doing. But every family of alchemists worth their salt has been whispering about you… shivering in the shadows where the rest of us can’t see how afraid they are.”

A flicker of something- dark pride, perhaps- crossed his steely expression, almost too fast to recognize. “I know your kind love to talk in circles, but you might as well spit it out.”

My jaw clenched, irritation sparking behind the pounding in my head. I stood, taking a step forward, and saw him flinch- something finally breaking past that forced calm. It brought a vicious smirk to my face, my fingers fisting in the chain and yanking him close enough to wrap my other hand in the front of his borrowed shirt. 

His face was inches from mine, close enough for him to feel the warmth of my breath, and his toes barely touched the floor. I could feel his pulse where my knuckles brushed his throat. Those fearless gray eyes widened with a hint of fear, lips parting as he snatched in a breath.

I trapped his gaze with mine, my tone dropping to a low gravel as I said, “You want me to be direct? Fine.” I dragged him slightly closer, my mouth next to his ear though there was nobody to overhear. “I know what you’ve been doing, Christopher- how many of my kind you’ve made disappear. You act like you’re better than me… but you’re a murderer all the same, and the blood of alchemists covers your hands.”