There’s a hunger in Mazus’s eyes, unbridled lust for my power. Despite the similarities between him and Thorne—the same eyes, the same jaw, the same nose—Mazus possesses none of Thorne’s warmth or charisma. With a roar that somehow reverberates with the aether-voice, I hurl every bit of magic I possess at the wall keeping me from my mate, my will entirely focused on freeing Thorne. I let aether run into and out of me, becoming my own leyline. The world seems to bend around me, and now I’m no longer pulling aether, but it’s still being forced into me in a torrential surge. I lose control over it, and now all I can do is exist while magic courses through me. My eyes sting, my vision blurs. I vaguely hear screaming, and I think it’s Nemesia begging me to stop. Or maybe it’s Fionn. The gentle and soothing murmur of Admon washes over my awareness, and it only drives me forward. The thing inside of me that has briefly opened its eyes on a few occasions now wakes up in a furious rage. Whatever has made me feel like more than myself not only blinks its eyes but completely overtakes me.

I become the aether, and my consciousness rises out of my body. Everything goes quiet and still, and I nearly sigh in relief at the calm that settles over me. I float over the room, surveying the scene with detached observation. Laurel—me—looks so incredibly broken. So does Nemesia. My spectral gaze finds Thorne, still fighting like hell to free himself of the bonds that won’t break, not without our blood. I swoop down to caress his face, even in this liminal state feeling the soul-deep thread that binds us. His nostrils flare, like he can sense me.

“I’ll be okay,” he whispers, or maybe thinks, since his mouth is still gagged with Mazus’s vile substance. I’m not sure how it works in this form. “Let me go. You’re killing yourself.” I don’t want to let go, would rather stay here by his side in my final moments than return to my body and face a reality where he’s gone. I know what being in this state is doing to me, but I can’t bring myself to care. “Live to fight another day, witchling. Please,” Thorne begs. The raw ache in his voice—his thoughts?—slams me back into my body, and the chaos and noise of the room erupts around me.