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Blood-letting. Poisons. Cold-iron and so much more…

Trigger points were dug into in order to activate the body’s flight or fight mechanisms. That was where the mana hid, they said, and we needed to lure it out.

Tests , they called them. But it was never anything more than torture.

“My Queen?” the Elder tried again, confusion evident in his features.

My legs carried me forward, because apparently they hadn’t gotten the memo that this was a very bad idea. I stepped onto the platform and tried not to breathe too loudly. When I reached the dais, I twisted to sit on the stone, before lying back into the hollowed out groove in the middle.

The Elder grinned down at me, his teeth as sharp as daggers, and his eyes as hungry as wyverns. I resisted the urge to shudder.

Draven stood near the door, arms folded. Watching. Not like a king. Not like a protector, either. Just…watching. Cataloging. Waiting for proof. Though there was something tense in the ebbing of his mana, something that pulsed just beneath the surface, like a question.

The Elder mage didn’t waste time. He moved with clinical precision, placing crystals around me—quartz, sunstone, a dark violet shard that pulsed when his hand passed over it. The air felt charged. Not painful. Not yet. But I could sense it building.

He lifted his hands. “Begin by breathing deeply. Think of a time you felt your mana stir. Even faintly.”

“I don’t have mana,” I said in a flat tone.

There was no sense in lying to him, not when this was the entire point of it all. Not when he would learn that soon enough.

His expression didn’t change, he gave me a placating look.

“You must, otherwise the Shard Mother would not have paired you with our noble king.”

Did Draven hear how pompous his words sounded from the mage’s mouth?

I looked at my husband, raising my eyebrows. “Indeed, that does seem to be the conundrum of the hour.”

My husband pursed his lips, and I took my petty victory as a flimsy bolster for the pain to come.

The male gave an unctuous smile. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

My fingers curled into fists at my sides, nails carving deep into the open wounds. The pressure helped. It reminded me that I was here, now. Not in my uncle’s favorite Sanctum. Not yet beneath a scalpel. Not yet bleeding for answers that would never come.

The Elder began a soft chant, his voice weaving through the air like mist. The crystals sparked, white, then blue, then a deeper hue that faded just as quickly as it flared.

Nothing happened. Obviously.

He adjusted the stones, repositioned his palms. “Try to focus,” he said. “Even a flicker is enough to?—”

“It isn’t a matter of focus,” I bit out.

More words. Another chant. This time, light gathered between his hands and pulsed toward me like a question.

Still, nothing.

No answering pulse of power in my chest. No tingling in my fingers. Not even the phantom ache of something lost.

The dais remained cold and dark beneath me.

“I see,” the mage said finally, voice cool and unreadable.

He stepped back and I waited for him to suggest the next steps. To wrap the offer of torture behind silkened words.

“It appears the Queen is correct.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably, as though the words physically pained him. “She has…no detectable mana. Though I must admit, I’m unsure how a Hollow has managed to survive this long without being… culled .”

Accusation laced his tone, like he wanted me to apologize for the sin of staying alive.

Draven’s power flared, furious and disbelieving. Because he was just proved wrong? Or did at least his mana care that the mage just suggested that someone should have killed me by now.

“There are discreet means,” the mage tacked on obliviously, as though perhaps maybe he was offering.

Or perhaps I could cull you now, through less discreet means. You frost-sucking gobshite.

“You’re mistaken.” Draven growled.

“I have run these tests thousands of times, Your Majesty, and I assure you?—”

“She has mana,” my husband snapped. “I’ve felt it.”

My attention snapped toward him, but he refused to meet my gaze.

The Elder considered for a moment, his expression going flat while his eyes flitted to the door on the other side of the room.

“There are tests we could run to assure your Majesty beyond all doubt.” There it is… “Bloodwork. Or, perhaps a memory retrieval spell to?—”

“No,” I said sharply, sitting up from the stone table, and hopping off on shaking legs.

It always started there. Then they couldn’t stop chasing the possibility. They could never quite admit defeat, not when another male was prodding them along, let alone the king himself.

I didn’t realize how hard I was shaking until Batty shifted under my cloak, chirping low against my neck. I forced my hands to unclench. My palms stung. Wetness slicked the cuts where my nails had broken skin, yet again.

The Elder blinked. “The procedures are perfectly safe?—”

“Really?” I hissed. “All of them?”

The Elder looked toward me, then back at Draven. “There are… more extensive methods, of course, but we would start with the simpler tests, then progress to what was necessary for Your Majesty’s peace of mind.”

It didn’t escape me that he hadn’t addressed me directly since finding out I was a Hollow. I shook my head, helplessness clawing at me from the inside out.

Draven hadn’t moved, but I could feel the weight of his attention. I turned to him, ready to argue, to fight, to scream.

But I didn’t need to. His eyes were narrowed, his features carved into pure, unrelenting ice.

“We will wait for the Archmage.” His tone was clipped with rage that, for a rare change, was not directed at me.

Whether it was because of the implications of the testing or just that he wasn’t getting the answer he wanted was anyone’s guess.

The mage’s lips parted in offense. “I can assure you, I’m more than capable.”

Draven pushed away from the wall, stepping between me and the mage.

“That’s twice you’ve been mistaken, unless you make a habit of lying to your king?” His usual condescension was icier than I had ever heard it.

The male’s mouth snapped shut. The Sanctum might have operated somewhat independently of the crown, but the mages were by no means immune to the king’s authority.

“We’re going.” Draven turned to face me, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

I didn’t wait for him to change his mind. I stepped off the platform on legs that felt like melted wax, my jaw so tight it ached. I didn’t look at the mage again, not even to gloat.

All I wanted was to get the hells out of this room.

Besides, this wasn’t quite salvation. The mage was a beast trained to maim, but the Archmage was his master.