Page 51 of Alchemised

Stroud pulled the covers back over Helena.

“If the High Necromancer is correct, she’s keeping the memories hidden by internalising her resonance.

Which means that she’s probably been putting most of her energy into maintaining it.

It might explain her lethargy, since it’s unlikely that it’s being done efficiently.

Now she’s pregnant. She doesn’t have the strength to sustain both, especially if this embryo is an animancer.

The High Necromancer says that his power was so great, he’d claimed every drop of his mother’s life while still in the womb and was birthed from her corpse upon the funeral pyre.

We’ll have to be sure to maintain Marino.

Perhaps if we’re lucky, we’ll end up with both a baby and the memories before she succumbs to the Toll. ”

“You didn’t think to mention this until now?” Ferron’s words were fine and sharp as a razor.

Stroud gave a tight shrug. “It’s not as though I have much data to theorise on.” She shot him a snide look. “You should ask your father. He’s our resident expert, you know.”

Something unreadable flashed across Ferron’s face. “I wouldn’t rely on his cooperation in this case.”

“Well, I can have an intravenous drip put in, but that’s as much as I can do.”

Stroud left, but Ferron stayed behind.

Helena closed her eyes. Now she understood: She was expected to die, and they’d all known. She only hoped it would happen too early for the pregnancy to be viable.

That fluttering negative space in the resonance screen danced in her mind’s eye.

Her chest tightened, heart pounding as if she were running.

The mattress shifted, and cool fingers touched her cheek, brushing back her hair and resting against her forehead.

A few days later, a doctor visited, and an intravenous drip was inserted into her left arm. Her days became ruled by the unending drip of saline and drugs inside the glass vial.

The morning sickness seemed to fade, but the headaches didn’t; if anything, they grew worse. Helena could barely move. She was poked and prodded by countless doctors, but none offered useful advice.

When they’d gone, Ferron would sit on the edge of the bed and smooth her hair. Sometimes he would take her hand, his fingers moving absently against hers. The first time he did it, she thought he was playing with her fingers; then she realised he was massaging them.

He always started at her palms, careful not to bend her wrists or bump the manacles, working slowly to her fingertips, knuckle by knuckle. It made them spasm less, so she let him, but she told herself she didn’t like it.

She grew thin, until the manacles were loose enough that she could see the tubes where they penetrated her wrists, and the necrothrall maid who most frequently watched her grew fretful to the point that Helena began to doubt that the woman was a necrothrall at all.

She’d hover over Helena, wordlessly offering mint and ginger tisanes, clear broths, and bits of toast, giving her sponge baths, and carefully combing and plaiting Helena’s hair into a loose braid so it wouldn’t mat. She seemed strangely experienced in nursing for a lady’s maid.

Ferron began to hover, too. He had to leave to hunt and perform whatever duties Morrough still gave him, but he was often in her room. Sometimes he’d come in, completely filthy, verifying that she was still alive before even cleaning up.

He didn’t speak or meet her eyes, but he was there constantly. Sitting sometimes for hours with her hand in his as if it could keep her from slipping away.

Stroud visited again when Helena was barely conscious. She heard comments about not expecting it to take such a toll already, blaming the transmutation in Helena’s brain, and complaining that it was far too early for viability.

Atreus was mentioned again.

Helena dreamed that her room was filled with moonlight, except instead of coming through the windows, the light came from Ferron.

His eyes had that eerie silver glow as he sat next to her, her hand in his once more, but this time her palm was pressed against his chest so that she could feel his heartbeat.

She couldn’t help but think something was supposed to happen, but nothing did. The dead sensation in her wrists was like a pit.

She felt like an hourglass, the final grains of sand finally running down. It was almost over. She could feel herself slipping away.

The room flipped as she was dragged up and crushed tight.

“Stay … please … stay.”

The light grew and the strangest sensation came over her, a glow inside her chest, familiar even though she was certain she’d never experienced anything like it before. The constant feeling of strain inside her chest, like a thread pulled to the verge of snapping, slowly faded away.

She closed her eyes, drawing a struggling breath, and the dream dissolved into nothingness.

H ELENA WOKE WITH A START, panic gripping her. She pushed herself up in bed, swaying as the room swam around her. She braced herself, ripping the needle from her arm, and tumbled from the bed.

There was something important she needed to do—

Her legs nearly gave out when they hit the floor. She stumbled, catching herself. A shock of pain lanced through her arms, but she ignored it.

She was supposed to be doing something.

What was it, though?

She couldn’t remember.

She was waiting. She needed to be ready for …

The knowledge danced just beyond reach, but she could feel it.

Don’t break.

She’d promised …

What? What had she promised? Think, Helena.

She had to remember now. She pressed her hands against her temples.

There were red spots dancing in her vision. Pain ballooning until it was larger than she was.

Ferron appeared in front of her. “What’s—”

She stared at him wildly. “I’m waiting—I promised I’d wait—”

Pain sheared through her brain, and the world split in two.

When her vision cleared, Ferron was still there, but his eyes had turned a flat grey, his hair darkened by shadows as he lunged towards her.

She fell back instinctively, fingers scrabbling, trying to find—

He vanished.

The room splintered.

Ilva Holdfast was sitting in front of her, her expression tense. “ We’re losing the war. ”

Before Helena could answer, Ilva was gone. Helena was falling.

No … She wasn’t falling.

Ferron had her by the throat, and he was slamming her onto the floor. His eyes narrowed into slits.

Cold water filled her mouth.

Everything was dark, ice-cold. She was surrounded by water. She could see Luc. He was clawing at his own throat, fingers leaving gouges in his skin.

Lila, with her hair cropped short, curled up against the wall, crying. “ I made a mistake. ”

“Surely I deserve something in return, to warm my cold heart.”

A hard kiss where she was pinned against a wall.

“You seem pleased, to have successfully whored yourself.”

Matron Pace standing, looking over her shoulder. “ Lila Bayard is not the only person that the Eternal Flame would suffer greatly for losing.”

“ You’re mine. You swore yourself to me. ” The words were growled in her ear.

Jan Crowther, alive, his eyes narrowed and furious. “ You’re more likely to destroy the Eternal Flame than save it. ”

Helena herself crying. “ I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did this to you. ”

Everything was falling in fragments around her as Ferron reappeared, his face white with rage, his eyes glowing that bright unearthly silver.

“I have warned you, if something happens to you, I will personally raze the Eternal Flame. That isn’t a threat. It is a promise. Consider your survival as much a necessity to the Resistance as Holdfast’s. If you die, I will kill every single one of them.”

It was like falling. The past broke free, surging through her mind and swallowing her.