Page 116 of The Vespertine Treaty
Her skin was hot. Mine was corpse-cold.
I didn't pull away. I pushed.
I didn't use the bond to comfort her. I accessed the darkest, hungriest part of my magic—the Pain-Eater—and I latched onto her emotional core.
It was a violation. It was theft.
I pulled the fear out of her. I drank the panic, the sorrow, the sharp, jagged edges of her trauma. I siphoned it from her mind and pulled it into my own Void.
The sensation was instantaneous and overwhelming.
A jolt of pure, unadulterated ecstasy slammed into my chest. It was better than brandy. It was better than violence. It was a rush of relief so profound it made my vision blur. The agony in my head vanished, replaced by the sweet, addictive nectar of her suffering. It mixed with a deep, crushing sorrow that wasn't mine, a cocktail of emotions that made my heart stutter.
Ophelia’s eyes fluttered shut. Her back arched off the mattress, and a low, soft moan escaped her lips—a sound of confusion and release as the weight of her fear was forcibly lifted.
I shuddered, a groan tearing from my own throat as I drank her pain. It felt good. Gods, it felt too good. It was the relief of a starving male finally tasting meat.
It didn't make sense.
Usually, feeding on pain was a burden. Every other soul I had ever drained added a new voice to the choir of the damned screaming in my head. Every drop of agony I swallowed usually hastened the rot, feeding the madness until the walls bled.
But her pain? Her fear?
It didn't feed the noise. It silenced it.
The Void curled around the taste of her sorrow like a lover, settling into a contented, purring slumber I had never felt before. It was a devastating, twisted irony: the world’s suffering drove me mad, but my wife’s suffering made me whole.
I looked down at her face, the revelation chilling me to the bone. She was the Stabiliser, yes. But not because of her light. Because even her darkness tasted like salvation.
I pulled back, my hand lingering on her cheek for a fraction of a second too long, my fingers twitching with the urge to take more. To take it all.
"Sleep," I rasped, my voice unrecognisable.
Ophelia slumped back against the pillows, her expression slack, her breathing instantly deepening into a rhythm of artificial peace. She was once again sedated. Not by alchemy, but by me.
I retreated to my side of the bed, my chest heaving, the taste of her pain sweet and heavy on my tongue.
It was a kindness, I told myself, the lie bitter.I silenced her fear so I could rest. So she could rest.
But deep down, as the ecstasy faded into a dull, satisfied throb, I knew what it really was. It was a feeding. And I had enjoyed it.
I settled back against the headboard, picking up theCenitus Lexwith hands that were shaking violently.
I stared at the pages.
The ink began to move.
First, it was just a shimmer. Then, the letters detached themselves from the parchment. They sprouted legs. Hundreds of tiny, black spiders scuttled across the page, swarming over my thumbs.
I blinked, hard. They didn't disappear.
"Get off," I whispered, flicking the page.
One of the spiders looked up at me. It had Malathor’s face. It opened its mouth and screamed—a tiny, high-pitched sound that drilled into my ear.
I slammed the book shut, the sound echoing in the silent room.
Across the room, near the fire, Rhana lifted her head. Her golden eyes narrowed, fixing on me with a sharp, predatory intelligence.
