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The guards don’t even glance at me.

They recognize the collar.

They see the way it gleams beneath the torchlight, the silver chain still hooked loosely around my neck.

They see what they think I am.

A pet.

A pretty thing kept in Zephiran grasp, tamed and obedient.

They don’t know I could kill them where they stand.

They’re unaware that the dagger pressed against the inside of my thigh is sharp enough to cut through cartilage, to sever arteries, to silence their questions with a single flick of my wrist.

I keep my steps measured, my hands folded just enough to sell the illusion.

Not too timid.

Not too bold.

Just enough to make them believe I know my place.

The guards step aside as I pass.

Fools.

The High Council’s vault is more than just a treasure hoard. It is a tomb of power, a graveyard of forgotten things.

The relic I need is somewhere deep inside, buried beneath centuries of secrets, of locked chests and enchanted seals.

And the only reason I’m able to step foot inside? Zephiran made me their weapon. Made me their amusement.

He gave them a show, let them see me as something more than a caged thing, let them taste the blood still fresh on my lips.

He wants me to do this.

That alone makes my skin crawl.

A robed attendant greets me at the entrance.

Thin, pale fingers drag along the chain at my throat, a mockery of ownership, a test.

It burns.

"You are here to collect what your master desires," he muses, leading me forward, his voice slow and slithering, like a man who enjoys hearing himself speak. "He must trust you a great deal."

I say nothing as silence is more powerful than lies.

It lets him fill in the gaps himself.

He walks me down the corridor, past towering black-iron doors, past sealed vaults that hum with magic, past the remnants of old, forgotten curses.

I feel them buzzing beneath my skin, power pressing against me in slow, invasive waves.

I swallow down the urge to wrench my arm from his grasp, to crush his fingers between my own.

Maybe soon.