Don’t you know? You found my journals, did you not?

Rion blew out a sharp breath. Herric?

All you needed was a little guidance. A nudge towards them.

Rion thought of those vivid dreams. Was it possible a dead king had led him to that chest?

I’ve been waiting for someone like you for a very long time.

Rion looked around, studying the ceiling and walls, the faces in the crowd. Was someone playing a prank? Or was he losing his mind?

The virulence, the voice said. Ussssse it.

Rion blinked. Use it for what?

Alter the Torch’s course, the voice said. You have the power.

Rion’s eyebrows pulled together as his gaze flicked around the room.

At that moment, the Torch’s magic surrounding Nadir and Meora swelled, filling the air with ribbons of light obscuring them from view of everyone in the room. He channeled a thread of his own magic into the virulence, and then, against every instinct—against everything he’d ever known—he filtered it into the Torch.

At first, it resisted the intrusion, trying to shove his magic out. But he gritted his teeth, propelling more power into it. He pushed against the barrier holding him back.

That’s it, came the rough voice again. You’re doing very well.

Emboldened by those words, Rion channeled more magic into the Artefact as the voice continued encouraging his efforts.

“Now what?” he heard himself saying. Meora gave him a curious look through the translucent bands of light surrounding them. He schooled his expression into coldness, and she quickly looked away.

Now, decide what you want it to do.

Rion hesitated. It? As in the Torch?

His gaze fell to Nadir, who stared up at him with that same accusing glare.

You want to punish the boy, don’t you?

Without really understanding, Rion forced more magic into the Torch, and though he couldn’t hear it, he could sense its surprise. Rion attempted to wrest control of its magic, and it fought him, trying to push him out.

He winced as his ring heated again, pain searing his skin. He reached into his pocket, where a polished stone of virulence sat, and wrapped his hand around it for strength. With another press of magic, he felt the Torch’s resolve crumbling.

There was a shift, a moment, when Rion realized he’d taken control.

His gaze went to Nadir, and Rion forced out another ribbon of the Torch’s magic, concentrating it on his son. He touched it to the baby’s forehead, the power camouflaged by the ribbons already swirling around the room.

Immediately, Nadir began to scream, his little fists bunching and his face turning red. The child thrashed in his blankets with such force that Meora stumbled.

Gasps around the room accompanied a chorus of horrified whispers.

“What’s happening?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nadir?” Meora sobbed. “What’s wrong?”