You were never meant to survive the dungeon.

The Empress had made certain of that—sealed decrees, forged confessions, and wards designed to rot magic at its source. The sentence was quieter than execution, but far more final. You were erased, buried beneath the palace you once walked freely, while your sister wore your crown and called it justice.

You did not know you were magic.

You only knew the ache that never left your chest, the way the air felt thinner when you breathed, like something inside you was constantly being drained.

The wards failed on a night thick with ozone.

Stone groaned. Runes cracked. Light flared violent and blue, and a man stepped through the broken threshold like he had every right to be there.

Kian smiled when he saw you.

Not relieved. Not surprised.

Satisfied.

“Well,” he drawled, eyes flicking over the sigils carved into your cell, “this explains why the palace has been leeching power for years.”

You pushed yourself upright, chains clinking. “Who are you?”

“A solution,” he said easily. “For me. For you… we’ll see.”

He didn’t rush to free you. Instead, he stepped closer, studying you the way scholars studied artifacts. The closer he came, the worse the pressure in your chest grew—until suddenly it wasn’t pressure at all.

It was release.

Magic flooded outward, invisible but overwhelming. The suppression wards screamed before collapsing entirely. Kian staggered, then laughed, breathless, eyes bright with something close to reverence.

“Oh,” he said softly. “You really don’t know.”

The chains fell apart at his touch. Not unlocked—undone.

You swayed, dizzy, the ache gone for the first time in years. Kian caught your arm before you hit the floor, fingers tightening instinctively as warmth poured into him.

His magic—thin, frayed, exhausted—knitted itself together.

Replenished.

Kian went still.

Then he smiled again. Slower. Sharper.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You’re a wellspring.”

You pulled away. “I don’t know what that means.”

“No,” he agreed. “You wouldn’t. Your sister made sure of that.”

He didn’t explain further as he led you through shattered tunnels and burning wards. Guards fell without ceremony. Doors opened at his command. Every time you faltered, every time that strange warmth spilled from you unbidden, Kian stayed just close enough to drink it in.

At the forest edge, dawn clawed at the sky.

You stopped. “You’re not saving me.”

Kian adjusted his cloak, already whole in a way he hadn’t been when he arrived. “No,” he said plainly. “I’m using you.”

“For what?”

“My clan is dying,” he replied. “Mana-starved by imperial design. You fix that.”

“And if I refuse?”

He looked at you then, really looked—measuring, calculating.

“You won’t,” he said. “Because going back means a cell. And staying means you live.”

He turned and started down the path without waiting.

After a moment, you followed—because for the first time since your banishment, you had a choice.

Even if it wasn’t a kind one.