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A shadow writhed in my periphery and I winced, the weight of golden eyes pressing against my skin as I tore myself from Laryk's grasp.

Confusion shattered his features before his gaze caught the acid burns scoring my flesh.

"What happened?" His eyes went dark.

"Narissa." Her name tasted like poison on my tongue.

"She was in here?" Annoyance flickered across his face, breaking through that careful mask of command he usually wore. “That’s the third time this week.”

"Don't worry. I sent her to bed. She won't remember anything."

“She hurt you,” he growled, eyes scanning me. “There will certainly be repercussions for that.”

“I’ll be fine.” I tried to assure him, tempted to bring up her claims but deciding against it.

"I knew you were alive," he breathed, and suddenly the exhaustion that had haunted his eyes when he entered transformed into something like hunger.

"I have so much to tell you, but I can't stay long." The words rushed out before I could stop them.

His brow furrowed. "What do you mean? You're here now." He moved toward me with that predatory grace I remembered, but I took a step back. The movement stopped him cold, his head tilting as he reassessed the situation. "You're home, Fia."

"I'm here," I said carefully. "But I can't stay."

"Why?" The word carried an edge of offense.

"I'm trying to explain all of it to you. Let me?—"

"How did you escape?" he cut me off.

I shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't escape, Laryk. I came here on my own."

He looked me up and down, brow creasing.

"I'm here," I said carefully, measuring each word. "But I can't stay."

"Why?" His voice carried the weight of months of searching, of grief. Confusion rippled across his features. He reached for my face, but I turned away from his touch. Something dangerous flickered in his emerald eyes.

"I have to talk to you about something important."

"Fine." The word was soft, but his jaw was set. "Continue."

"Riftdremar—the uprising, this war. The Wraiths. None of what we've been told is true." The words sounded mad even to my own ears, and I forced myself to breathe slower.

"Where are you getting this from?"

"The arcanite," I said, watching his eyes sharpen at the word. "It doesn't create essence—itstoresit. Those towers—in Emeraal and Stormshire—were mined in Riftdremar. That's the entire reason the uprising happened in the first place."

He blinked, and for the first time since I'd known him, genuine surprise cracked through that careful mask. But wariness still lingered in the set of his shoulders.

I took a deep breath, watching him process. "Have you ever heard of a siphon?"

"A siphon?" The word rolled off his tongue like he was tasting it. "No."

"A person who can control the flow of essence." I lowered my voice. "Tell me, what is the King's focus?"

His eyebrows shot up at the direct question, but he leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms. "He can turn water to ice."

"Have you ever seen him do it?"