The machine woke like a living thing.
Not all at once.
First, a hum—low, patient, almost gentle. Then the glass coils lit from within, pale gold threading through them like captured dawn. Runes along the floor flickered awake in sequence, each one catching, holding, then passing the light forward.
A chain of intention.
Aderic didn't raise his voice.
He didn't have to.
"Begin," he said.
The word settled into the room like a seal.
Mireya felt it before anything touched her.
The Concord reacted.
A pull—deep, internal, wrong.
Like something inside her had been hooked and was now being tested for strength.
She staggered, breath catching. "No—"
Stellan moved at the same time, but the motion broke halfway through.
Because the bond pulled again.
Harder.
And this time, it didn't feel like connection.
It felt like separation.
Like fingers forcing themselves between threads that had already been tied.
Stellan's breath tore out of him. "Mireya—"
The machine answered.
Light surged.
The coils flared bright enough to turn shadows into sharp edges. Lines of gold snapped from the runes on the floor—thin, precise—and latched.
Not to their bodies.
To something inside them.
Mireya screamed.
It didn't sound like her.
It sounded like the moment before glass breaks.
Stellan dropped to one knee, hand braced against the stone. His Pulse didn't flare—it shattered. Rhythm broke into fragments, each beat misfiring like a heart forgetting its job.
The bond—
The bond was being pulled apart.
Not cleanly.
Thread by thread.
Mireya's vision split.
Not doubled.
Split.
Half the room through her own eyes—Aderic standing calm, the Confessor still as a shadow, guards frozen between fear and obedience—
And the other half—
Stellan.
On his knees.
Blood at his mouth.
Her name caught between his teeth.
The machine pulled again.
And something tore.
Mireya gasped, choking on air that suddenly felt too thin.
A memory slipped.
Gone.
She reached for it instinctively—and felt nothing there.
"What—what—" Her voice broke. "What did I—"
Stellan jerked like he'd been struck.
"I can't—" he started, then stopped.
His brow furrowed.
Confusion.
Raw. Immediate.
"I can't remember—"
The machine didn't pause.
It fed on that moment.
The golden threads tightened.
Another pull.
This time, Mireya felt it take something heavier.
Not just a memory.
A sense.
Sound warped.
Her Silence didn't fail—it fractured. Pieces of it tore away, dragged toward the coils. The world rushed in too loud, too sharp, then vanished in patches like someone tearing holes in reality.
She heard Stellan's voice—
Then didn't.
Saw his mouth move—
Then didn't.
"Stellan—!" she tried again, but even her own voice felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.
The machine pulsed.
And the bond screamed.
Stellan slammed his fist into the floor, as if pain could anchor him.
"Stay with me," he said—too fast, too rough. "Don't—don't let it—"
He stopped.
His eyes went unfocused.
"What was I—"
Mireya's stomach dropped.
"No," she snapped, sharper than she felt. "No. You don't get to forget in the middle of this. Try."
Stellan blinked hard.
Focused on her.
Not the machine.
Not the pain.
Her.
"Mireya," he said.
Like it was something he could hold onto.
The machine reacted.
The threads shuddered.
Aderic's head tilted slightly, interest sharpening.
"Fascinating," he murmured. "Identity anchors."
The coils flared brighter.
The next pull wasn't careful.
It was hungry.
Mireya felt it rip through her like a blade dragged across too many things at once.
Memories snagged—
A corridor—
A mask—
A voice saying good girl—
Gone.
She choked, breath breaking into pieces. "I—what was—"
Her hands shook.
Her thoughts didn't line up.
She tried to count—one, two, three—
The numbers slipped.
"Stellan," she said, because the name came easier than anything else.
He looked at her like he was memorizing her in real time.
Because maybe he was.
"I'm here," he said.
But his voice wasn't steady.
Because something in him was unraveling too.
His Pulse—she could feel it—wasn't rhythm anymore. It skipped, stuttered, dropped beats entirely. Like a song losing notes faster than it could play them.
The machine dragged at him again.
And this time—
Mireya felt something tear out of him.
Not physical.
Worse.
A piece of him she recognized without knowing how.
Grief.
It vanished.
Stellan inhaled sharply.
Then frowned.
Like he'd lost something and didn't know what it was.
"What just—" He shook his head hard. "No. No, I need that—"
"You need me," Mireya said, too fast. Too sharp. Because if he started chasing pieces, he'd lose everything.
His gaze snapped back to her.
Right.
Focus.
Anchor.
The threads between them—what was left of them—tightened.
The machine resisted.
Pulled harder.
Aderic stepped closer, calm as ever. "You're feeling it now," he said. "The separation. The raw material beneath attachment."
Mireya laughed.
It came out broken.
"Try," she rasped.
Aderic's mouth curved slightly.
"Very well."
He lifted his hand.
The machine answered.
The coils blazed white.
The threads went taut—
And ripped.
Mireya screamed again.
This time, something fundamental shifted.
Her vision collapsed inward.
Not darkness.
Absence.
She couldn't—
She couldn't remember—
Her own face.
The thought landed wrong.
Incomplete.
She tried to picture it—eyes, mouth, anything—
Nothing came.
Just blank space where something important should be.
Her breath hitched.
"I—" She swallowed hard. "I don't—"
Who—
What—
Her thoughts stuttered, breaking apart before they could form.
Across from her, Stellan dragged himself forward on shaking arms.
Every movement looked like it cost him something he couldn't afford.
He reached—
Not touching.
Close enough.
"Mireya," he said again.
The name landed.
Solid.
Real.
It didn't slip.
It didn't tear.
It stayed.
Mireya clung to it without knowing why.
Because everything else was going.
Everything.
The machine pulled again.
Her head snapped back.
Light burned behind her eyes.
Thoughts scattered like frightened birds.
She didn't know where she was.
Didn't know what this was.
Didn't know—
—but she knew that name.
She turned her head.
Found him through instinct more than sight.
Her voice came out raw. Barely sound.
But it held.
"Stellan."
The threads between them—
What little remained—
Flaired.
Refused.
And for one impossible second—
The machine hesitated.