She had been saved by people who had worked at this facility before. They had given her power and then by faith or by fortune her power had outstripped their ability to deal with her. They had asked her for favors and she had done only some of those favors, as she pleased. They had, after all, enabled her to hold her Elijah without being his slave.

With this and more, she assaulted Chevalier’s eyes with more deep truths that the eyes normally couldn’t see. With visual representations of feelings he would know to be her fact. What it felt to be worshiped, what it felt to give all of oneself up to faith. The security of giving oneself over.

He endured it all. He knew all of the tricks, the techniques, the things that members of the PRT, Protectorate, and Wards had studied. He had sweat at his brow and a distant look in his eyes.

She had been told of these things from a Ward named Sunflower, who had gone to meet a boy she had met online, and found that boy was named Elijah. He had brought her to Christine, and Christine had thanked her by arranging her a husband. A shame, that Sunflower had been stolen away by the heroes.

As of now, she had two with her who had been brought into the fold much as Sunflower should have been. Ala and Chort. They watched over her while she swam in memory, almost floated amongst three hundred thousand connections, to eyes, ears, skin, and to other senses.

She felt lighter than air, transcendent, while Chevalier crawled amid broken tiles before her, his friends and allies in the process of being bound by chains, even though many were too injured to move, and the remainder were unwilling to act because thralls and Fallen had the injured hostage. Chevalier was powerless and she was more powerful than she had ever been.

She ran fingers through Chevalier’s hair, then did it again without touching him with her hands, using her power only.

“Tell me, do you have a means of listening to others? Do you know if my Elijah lived?”

Chevalier was silent. He likely knew she could get a small foothold in the mind by being talked to. It was a benefit of small fractions for her, but he refused to grant it.

“Come, look up at me,” she told Chevalier. She put a hand at his chin, and Chort helped her, forcing Chevalier’s head up until it couldn’t move any further. Chort wore a wolf pelt with goat horns over head and shoulders, and despite being only sixteen, was strong on a level that surpassed even heroes like Alexandria. When he moved, he did so with care. To him, Chevalier was like eggshell.

She reached for Chevalier’s mouth, and her fingers slipped past lips, fingertips growing wet with saliva.