The hands were on me again.
Cold.
Pulling at something deep inside my chest, something vital and burning and mine. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The ritual circle glowed beneath me, runes I couldn't read pulsing with sickly green light.
"Just a little more," a voice whispered. "Almost there."
My mana core burned, fracturing like glass under pressure—
I jolted awake, gasping, my hand flying to my chest.
Not real. Not real. You're safe. You're in the palace. You're—
But my hands were shaking.
Three nights. Three nights of the same nightmare. Three nights of waking up like this, drenched in sweat, fighting the urge to vomit, feeling the phantom sensation of my mana being ripped from my body.
Tomorrow was the trial.
Tomorrow, I would have to sit in a courtroom and watch them question the bandits. Watch them question Arabella. Watch them dissect what happened to me like it was just another political scandal instead of—
I gritted my teeth.
