Zayn had moved Sterling to his room without spectacle. He had held Sterling in his arms while he fought the urge to close his eyes—fought the urge to give in to the sigil. They were side effects of a power far too familiar, and giving in to those side effects meant danger. And he knew Sterling had it in him—resistance. Sterling had barely registered the movement, and his limbs were far heavier than normal. He wasn't possessed, nor was he paralyzed, but he was tethered. As if invisible strings ran from his sternum into the floor beneath the apartment.
Zayn had laid Sterling carefully on the bed, a faint smile still at the corner of his lips. Sterling smiled too much.
Then, Zayn stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching. Not because he was uncertain, but because he was calculating.
The mana he had forced in seemed to have calmed down the sigil by a tad, which was exactly what he expected. He had thought Sterling had paled back at HQ, but this was worse, like his blood had fought a battle against something to keep circulating. Luca was beyond pale, which was evidence of his weakened state.
The artifact had ceased all hectic activity. It no longer glowed brightly. It hummed in a low register, satisfied. The artifact had started all of this—and he was sure that the elf's death played a part in an orchestra far from his reach because this artifact was a replica of the real one. Its casing bore faint fractures along its surface now—stress lines from activation.
Someone had spent decades preparing for this moment.
Zayn's eyes sharpened. This was personal, and the magic was too familiar.
His eyes shot toward Sterling at the smallest movement. Sterling shifted on the bed, wincing as his hand drifted toward his chest again. The sigil flickered faintly beneath the fabric of his onesie—barely visible unless one knew exactly what to look for.
Zayn knew.
He stepped closer, crouching again, but didn't touch him this time. When he had forced his mana earlier, the sigil hadn't rejected him. It had responded and welcomed him. That was calibration at a level only one being would dare to attempt. His thoughts brushed against a name. He didn't allow it to form. Instead, he studied the pattern beneath Sterling's skin more closely.
"May I?" He asked carefully, hands on Sterling's collar.
Sterling nodded briefly, eyes glancing down to meet his gaze. He didn't stir, didn't even protest. That wasn't good.
He moved the collar out of the way, taking a closer look at the design and colour of the sigil. Sterling's top half was covered in a deep wine colour, except for his neck and face. The petals were mapped into vascular lines and mapped to nerve pathways. Mapped disturbingly to flowery resonance channels. El—
Sterling inhaled sharply, eyes squeezing shut. The second pulse spoke. Not audibly—but Zayn felt it. Not as mana, not as destruction, not as extraction—but as integration.
His expression remained stony, but he felt the thing that was colder than fury settle deeper into place behind his eyes once again.
"You didn't design this to kill him," Zayn murmured. Not to Sterling. But in the absence of the architect of the sigil.
Sterling's breath stuttered, his hand moving as if to grab Zayn.
Zayn's gaze snapped to him immediately. "What do you feel?" he asked, moving closer, letting Luca grab hold of him.
Sterling swallowed, disoriented. "Like… I—I'm feeling fine now."
Zayn narrowed his eyes, a single eyebrow rising fiercely. He waited silently because he hadn't kept his patience to hear lies.
Sterling's face seemed to warm, his eyes moving around as if in reconsideration. Then, he muttered quietly, "I feel like… Something's listening."
Zayn went very still—more than usual.
The air in the room tightened. "Listening" was the correct word. The seed hadn't rooted violently. It had rooted patiently, its torment being as brutal and slow as it was. It was as if it were waiting for a threshold.
Zayn reached out again, slowly pressing a hand over Sterling's abdomen. He allowed the faintest thread of mana to brush against the sigil's edge. The response was immediate, sending a soft resonance that crawled up his spine. It was welcoming, once again.
The second pulse synchronized again, aligning perfectly with his rhythm for half a beat before settling back into Sterling's cadence.
Zayn withdrew his hand instantly, brows furrowing. His silence deepened, a low hum present inside of him.
This wasn't an attack meant to maim. It was a message meant to tether.
Sterling shifted again, struggling to sit upright.
"Sit up slowly," Zayn said evenly.
Sterling obeyed without thinking—then blinked, as if startled that he had. He pushed himself upright, his head spinning faintly. Zayn steadied him without thinking, hand firm at the small of his back.
Their eyes met, seeping into each other's.
For a moment, Sterling's focus returned fully, his eyes widening. "Zayn," he whispered.
There it was. Not fear. Not accusation, but trust.
Zayn's jaw flexed once, his name echoing in his mind. The way Sterling spoke his name without even realizing it shook something in him. His fingers twitched as he stared intently into Sterling's eyes. They were not as sickly as before but also not yet bright.
The seed pulsed again, soft and patient, as if marking the moment. And somewhere in the back of Zayn's mind, a realization began forming. This was not phase one.
This was the prelude.
***
Fortunately, because of the abundance of mana support Zayn had been giving, Sterling had gained more energy.
His hand rested behind Sterling's back, only letting go once the second rhythm was fully stabilized into something deceptively obedient.
He didn't show the shift in his thoughts. The shift didn't show in his posture. When he stood, he was composed. Unhurried. In control.
Luca blinked at him, still pale and disoriented. He was stubborn even in his current condition.
"Gee, you don't need to hover," Sterling muttered, attempting to sit upright. He made it halfway before the room tilted and his breath hitched, a faint heat from his neck creeping up to his face.
Zayn caught him before he could fall, one arm behind his back and the other steady on his shoulder.
"I'm not hovering," Zayn replied evenly without an edge in his tone. It was only measured certainty.
The sigil beneath Sterling's shirt gave the faintest flicker in response to proximity. Zayn noticed. His breathing remained steady, and he looked somewhere else.
Sterling frowned, trying to pull away. "Don't—I don't need help; it's fine." He formed a smile, not quite reaching his eyes.
"It's not fine," Zayn said calmly. "I am stabilizing you. You need it." He stared intently into Sterling's eyes, his gaze never leaving.
"I'm not dying. I can function properly."
"I am aware, and the second part is false," Zayn said, not letting go of him.
Sterling palmed his face, then smiled wider, trying to hide his frustration that Zayn saw right through. Food. Sterling needed food.
Zayn grabbed his hand, guiding him over to the couch. Every moment was deliberate, every touch was precise, and he matched his pace. When Sterling sat down, Zayn's fingers adjusted the back of Sterling's collar, almost absentmindedly. He was not looking at the sigil anymore. He was mapping the warmth patterns. The pattern had not advanced, meaning it was complete. That was a problem.
The artifact had appeared, teleporting itself to the coffee table. It sat fractured and quiet, its surface dulled as though exhausted. Zayn did not look at it. He did not need to. He already knew that this was intentional calibration. And Sterling was the conduit.
Sterling shifted away from his touch, frustrated. "Stop monitoring me like I'm unstable, please."
Zayn's gaze lifted to meet his. "You are currently compensating for neurological override."
"Those aren't the same things."
"No," Zayn agreed smoothly. "They are not." His fingers adjusted Sterling's sleeve—checking pulse, temperature, and mana fluctuation.
Sterling narrowed his eyes, brows furrowed. "You don't get to decide what I can handle."
Zayn tilted his head slightly. "If I don't decide, you will destroy yourself." His eyes darkened for half a second—"I won't allow you to destroy yourself for as long as I have you in my grasp. And no one else can destroy you but me," he thought.
Sterling stared at him. "That's not your call, director."
"It becomes my call when interference responds to me." The words slipped out before he could stop them. Zayn glanced away—mad at himself for his lack of control.
Sterling froze. "Responds to you?"
A beat of silence. Zayn adjusted his cuff again. "It's synchronized briefly; that's all."
"That isn't 'all,'" Sterling said quietly.
"No," Zayn replied calmly, "it isn't."
Sterling stood up too quickly. The invisible tether tightened. His breath hitched as he wobbled over.
Zayn caught him instantly, hands settling at his waist. "You need my help."
"I appreciate the 'help,' but I don't need it. Don't want it. I assure you that I'm fine, and you should go. I know you have work to do," Sterling said quietly, his expression not quite matching his words.
"No," Zayn said calmly, though his voice carried that same finality—the one Sterling never disobeyed.
"No?" Sterling echoed, frowning deeply. He crossed his arms in defeat.
Zayn nodded. He wasn't going to leave. Sterling knew that—and yet he asked. Zayn was going to stay right there until he was satisfied enough to leave, and Sterling would let him.
***
Sterling tried to stand again fifteen minutes later, determination etched all over his face.
He lasted three steps.
The invisible tether in his chest tightened sharply—not painful this time, but corrective, like a leash pulled just enough to remind him of his existence. He sucked in a breath.
Zayn was beside him instantly.
"I said I'm fine, director," Sterling snapped, more frustrated than afraid now.
Zayn's large hands steadied him at the waist, sending unwanted bolts up Sterling's spine, making him flush subtly.
"You're not 'fine.' You're exhausted."
Sterling smiled sarcastically. "I don't need your advice; try again later."
"No," Zayn replied calmly. "You need rest, and you need nutrition."
Sterling bristled, glancing at the kitchen that was only a few steps away. "Don't talk to me like I'm one of your recruits."
Zayn met his eyes evenly, leaning in until his hair rustled against Luca's face and he could feel his warm breath against his neck. "If you were one of my recruits," he whispered, voice low, "you would already be unconscious."
Sterling didn't recoil; he rolled his eyes. Zayn felt his pulse quicken—but not in fear. "Threatening me now? That's really nice of you, director." Sterling said while stepping back. He was now closer to the kitchen.
"Good," Zayn thought. He approached Sterling once more. "No. I am stating a fact," he replied.
And yet, his hands never tightened, never forced, never restrained beyond what was necessary to keep Sterling steady. That was the cruelty of it.
Zayn appeared to be relaxed. Composed. His breathing was even, but his eyes roamed over Luca subconsciously.
Internally, all of his calculations were running at once: The sigil responded to proximity; it had synchronized when he forced mana into it, and it did not resist him. The scum had built this with him in mind. And Sterling was not reacting like a mere victim—he was reacting like a host.
Zayn's fingers brushed the back of Sterling's neck, as if checking for a fever. Sterling shuddered, ready to protest—yet no words left his mouth.
The seed pulsed once, soft, almost pleased.
Zayn's hands moved to Sterling's collar as if they were discussing the weather, but his eyes lingered for far longer than necessary. He lowered his hand abruptly, clearing his throat.
"You're not leaving this apartment tonight either. You're not ready," he said.
Sterling stiffened. "In my own home?" was written all over his face, but he didn't speak the words.
"Excuse me?" He finally said. His eyes searched Zayn as if trying to find an answer—one that he wanted to hear. He didn't find anything.
"You heard me," Zayn replied dismissively.
Sterling managed a step closer, pointing his finger in Zayn's face. "You don't get to decide that. It's impolite and inconsiderate, director."
Zayn tilted his head, fully closing the distance between them in one stride. "I do."
He didn't say it harshly; he said it with gravity, fingers subtly tightening around Sterling's waist. He now leaned against a kitchen counter, hands behind him on its marble surface. Zayn stood in front of him, staring down. His warm breath grazed Sterling's skin as his gaze spilled downwards into his with far more intensity than necessary.
Sterling's jaw tightened with a faint blush on his cheeks. "You don't own me," he whispered as he looked away, avoiding Zayn's eyes.
Something flickered in Zayn's gaze—not anger. Something ancient and restrained. "I am aware." His grip loosened. "Of course I don't. I shouldn't. But neither will anyone else," he thought. And for the first time that night, those words cost him something.
"A prince doesn't kneel to lesser blood," his father had said.
Sterling's gaze softened for half a second before returning hard. He crossed his arms, ignoring the way his breath still felt uneven. "You're overreacting again." He swallowed hard, and Zayn took in every second of it.
"I'm not reacting at all, Sterling," Zayn said almost calmly. Almost. But it wasn't true, which was why it was dangerous.
Sterling tried backing Zayn off of him, his hands pressing flat against his chest in a futile attempt. Something flashed behind his eyes, the heat on his cheeks increasing. Zayn didn't move Sterling's hands away. He watched attentively as Sterling appeared to chicken out, dropping his hands to his side.
Zayn cupped the back of Sterling's head, leaning closer as if to whisper. He didn't; he moved his face back and stared intently into Sterling's eyes, as if memorizing every detail of his face—and then he stepped back abruptly. "You need my support," Zayn finally said.
Sterling paused for a moment, eyes searching Zayn's, pulse quickening by the second. Zayn saw the faint disappointment that captured his face for half a second, and he ignored it. Then, Sterling exhaled sharply. "Since you want to be that way, then leave. Right now," Sterling replied with too much venom in his voice.
Zayn raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowing.
"Leave, director," Sterling said again, a dangerous edge to his voice. Zayn studied him for one measured second. If he remained, the synchronization would advance. If he withdrew, the sigil would be forced to operate without external calibration. Either way, this wasn't phase one. And if he did neither?
Zayn felt an uneasy heaviness in his chest—like it was sinking. His expression remained neutral, but the foreign feeling settled in him in a nagging way. Sterling's words didn't affect him. They weren't supposed to.
"I will return shortly," he said inevitably.
Sterling's expression hardened, his habitual imitation of a smile reappearing on his face. "Don't bother, director."
The words struck something unfamiliar inside Zayn's chest—not pain. Not anger. It was a heavyweight he couldn't recognize. How could he ever leave this human when he could feel the struggle with one glance? How could he leave him when he could barely stand without needing support?
The sigil pulsed faintly beneath Sterling's shirt, as if testing the distance between them. Zayn felt it. He could leave. He should leave. Distance would slow the calibration. But Sterling stood there, stubborn, pale, and pretending he wasn't trembling.
Zayn exhaled slowly. "No," he thought. Not tonight.
He turned back, his tone flat. "You tried to kick me out because you didn't want to eat." If anything, strategy could wait. He would accept the consequences of staying.
Heat crept up Sterling's face, his eyes wide as if he'd been caught red-handed. Zayn began approaching him, smirking. Sterling backed away, as if wanting to escape.
The sigil flickered quietly, observant.
"You will eat. Your body needs it." Zayn said as he 'ran' after Sterling while matching his pace. The tether loosened briefly as the chase went on.
"I won't, and you can't make me. I'm not even hungry!" Sterling shouted, terror etched all over his face. He went for the curtains, hiding behind them as if nourishing himself were a crime.
"Food. Drinks. Donuts," Zayn teased him, still 'chasing' him around the house when he was actually speed walking.
Though it may have been the smallest sound, Zayn caught the sound of Sterling chuckling as he tried to 'escape.' The sound was too light for him. "You deserve someone who can laugh like this without calculation," he said internally, letting his thoughts out of his control for half a second.
As Sterling ran across the room in his onesie, the sigil pulsed faintly beneath his skin, quiet now. A gentle reminder of fragility, of trust, and of boundaries neither could cross, yet both feared to break.
The corner of Zayn's lips twitched as he watched Sterling. It was as if he were an orca chasing prey. Prey that he wasn't allowed to chase.
After just three minutes, Sterling collapsed on the couch, breathless, cheeks pink, still smiling despite himself. His fingers twitched at the edge of the couch, wanting to push Zayn away—but even in exhaustion, he knew he wouldn't succeed.
Zayn knelt beside him, hands still hovering, smirking as he watched Sterling's chest rise and fall in exhaustion.
Zayn's eyes roamed over his smiling face, familiar in every way. He remembered the exact time and place that Sterling had last smiled without hiding something. Without faking. He studied every detail of his lips. The curves, the colour, and the brightness when they curled up into a smile. The warmth.
And for now, the tether rested. And for a fleeting moment, the world was quiet.
Yet Zayn still couldn't leave. He wouldn't leave. He didn't have the courage in him yet. And Sterling… let him stay just a while longer.