1. Echo

The witches like when I scream. They think it tastes better that way, the magic, I mean. My magic. Elemental blood is rare, precious, a delicacy to creatures who need a source to cast even the simplest spell. I’ve heard them whisper it while they carve sigils into my skin.

If she screams, the magic flows faster. If she cries, the elements respond.

I learned a long time ago to give them nothing. So I sit in the cage, back pressed against cold iron, hands chained above my head, and let the silence be my last weapon. The witches prowl around the den like insects. There are seven tonight, maybe eight. It’s hard to keep track when exhaustion blurs the edges of my vision. The smell of burnt herbs and copper fills the cavern, it's thick and sickly sweet. Ritual chalk stains the floor with old spells and my dried blood crusts the corners of their runes. My knees tremble. My head is heavy. But my magic, what remains of it, is still mine.

The witches don’t know that. Not yet. They think they’ve drained me dry.

“Quiet little thing,” one of them mutters as she stirs a cauldron. Her skin is grey and cracked, like old stone. “Elementals usually break quicker.”

“She’ll break soon.” Another laughs, tapping the cage with her foot. “They always do.”

I lift my head slowly. My neck burns from where one of their brands still smokes, but I force myself to meet her gaze.

“We’re not all weak,” I rasp.

The witch steps closer, grin widening. “No, you’re not. But you will be. Give it time.”

She reaches between the bars and brushes my cheek with a long, blackened nail. I don’t flinch. Flinching makes them feel powerful. Instead, I lean forward, close enough that she can smell the smoke under my skin.

“Touch me again,” I whisper, “and I’ll turn your lungs to ash.”

The witch jerks her hand back like she’s been burned. She should be afraid. Even now while I am half-starved, half-drained, magic flickering like a candle in a storm, I still feel the fire coil beneath my ribs, ready to strike if I let it. But if I use it now, I’ll collapse. I won’t survive another casting. I know it. They know it.

So I wait.

I endure.

I listen.

Two weeks. Maybe three. That’s how long I’ve been here. I lost count after the third ritual, when the dark one with the gold-ringed eyes carved a binding rune directly over my sternum. I still feel it pulse, stealing my strength, but every day it pulses a little fainter. Their spell is weakening. Because I am weakening. Sustaining the drain takes a lot of energy from me and when that runs low, the rune cracks. I just need time. But time is the one thing I don’t have. The witches are preparing something tonight. Something bigger. The air trembles with it. My shackles hum, reacting to the surge of power being gathered in the main chamber. They’re going to try to rip the rest of my magic out in one go. If they succeed, I die. My fingers twitch. The shackles bite into my wrists. Sparks nip at my palms, weak and pitiful, but sparks all the same. Fire wants to answer me. Wind wants to slip through the bars. Water trembles deep in the earth, hearing me. Even the stone under my feet shivers. The elements remember me even if the witches try to make me forget myself.

A crash echoes through the cavern. Not the usual kind. Not a cauldron tipping or a witch slamming a spellbook shut. This sound is sharp, heavy and violent. The witches still.

“What was that?” one hisses.

Another stiffens. “Someone’s here.”

My pulse jumps. It can't be a witch. They don’t fear each other. Footsteps follow the crash, slow, and heavy enough to make the chalk lines tremble. Shadows shift long before the man appears through the archway... and gods. I know immediately that he is not human. He fills the space like a storm fills the sky. He's tall, broad and probably carved from darkness itself. His cloak drags behind him in tatters. His boots are stained with fresh blood. His presence is…dangerous. He's a vampire, a pureblood vampire.

The air drops ten degrees. The witches scatter, hissing like rats.

“King Nicholaus,” one shrieks.

My breathing stops. That's the monster whispered about in human taverns. The immortal king. The butcher. The nightblade.

His eyes sweep the room, glinting like polished obsidian, completely unmoved by the chaos he’s walked into. Until his eyes land on me. He stops walking and I can see something shifts in him but he masks it too quickly. The witches rush him. Idiots. His sword is out in a blink, cutting through the first three before they even reach him. It isn’t a fight, it’s an execution. The last witch tries to flee, but she doesn’t make it two steps before Nicholaus grabs her by the throat, lifts her off the ground, and snaps her neck like it’s nothing. He drops her body, never taking his eyes off me and silence crashes into the cavern. I force a breath into my lungs as he approaches the cage slowly, like he’s studying a beast he doesn’t fully understand. He stops only inches from the bars and up close, he’s worse, more monstrous...More beautiful. His jaw tightens as he studies the runes carved into my arms. The burns. The bruises. The dried blood. I swear pity flashes in his eyes for half a heartbeat. I hate him for it.

I bare my teeth. “If you come one step closer, King, I’ll burn the marrow out of your bones.”

He smiles, like I’ve amused him.

“Defiant,” he murmurs. “Good.”

His voice is deep enough to rattle the cage.

“I said step closer and die,” I spit.

Nicholaus ignores the threat entirely and reaches for the lock.

“No,” I snarl, voice cracking. “Don’t—”

He rips the door off its hinges. The metal screeches. The vibrations shake down my bones. Dust blooms across the cavern floor and fire erupts in my chest, too weak to use, but strong enough to burn through the fog of exhaustion as he steps into the cage. I can’t move. Not because of fear, but because I don’t have the strength to stand. The witches drained too much tonight. He crouches in front of me, massive frame folding with a predatory grace and his hand lifts toward my face.

I jerk back, as far as the chains allow. “Touch me and I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” he murmurs, reaching anyway. “You can barely breathe.”

His fingers brush my cheek, they're cold, silken and steady. My magic lunges toward him instinctively, wind whipping, fire sparking, but the effort sends black spots across my vision. He catches my chin and forces my gaze to his.

“You’re coming with me,” he says simply. “You’re not dying in this hole.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“You are,” he counters. “Because you’re mine.”

Darkness swallows the edges of my sight and his voice follows me into it.

“And I will not lose what is mine.”