Page 7 of Taken

They’ve strapped me to the chair. Routine protocol, they claim, but we all know it’s about control. The restraints bite into my wrists, but I keep my face blank. Never let them see weakness. Rule number one of surviving the Syndicate.

Hargen works quietly beside me, attaching electrodes to my temples, checking the IV line in my arm. His fingers brush my skin in silent apology.

“Comfortable, Ms. Rossewyn?” Creed stands at the edge of the room, his tailored suit against the clinical environment.

“Absolutely blissful,” I reply, my tone desert-dry. “You should try it sometime.”

His lip curls. After years of doing this, he still hasn’t developed a sense of humor. Pity. It would make our sessions less tedious.

“Let’s not waste time.” He checks his watch—platinum, ostentatious. “We have questions about some energy readings near the coast we’ve picked up.”

I say nothing. They always have questions. I rarely have answers they like.

Creed nods to Hargen. “Begin the extraction.”

The first wave of magic hits like a physical blow. They use my own blood against me—amplified, corrupted, turned into a conduit for the information I tap into. Beneath it all, I feel Hargen’s power—reluctant but present—twining with the darker energies to force their way through my veins, hunting for visions, for prophecy.

I grit my teeth against the pain. God… it never gets easier.

“Focus on the coastal regions,” Creed instructs. “The fluctuations began three days ago.”

The magic twists, burning through me like acid. Images begin to form—fragmented, disjointed. The ocean. Rocks. A cave entrance half-submerged in tidewater.

“What do you see?” Creed demands, leaning forward.

“Water,” I manage through clenched teeth. “Caves. Something… hidden.”

“More specific,” he presses. “What’s causing the fluctuations?”

I try to focus, to see beyond the fragments, but the more I reach, the more the pain intensifies. White-hot needles behind my eyes. My blood turning to fire in my veins.

“There’s something… sealed away,” I gasp. “Old magic. Older than…” The words choke off as a particularly violent surge of power tears through me.

“Her vitals are spiking,” Hargen warns, eyes on the monitors. “We should ease back.”

“Not yet,” Creed dismisses. “Push deeper.”

The magic intensifies, and I can’t hold back the grunt of pain that escapes me. My fingers dig into the armrests, knuckles white.

More images flood my mind. A symbol carved into stone. Water turning to steam. A box—no, a container of some kind—hidden within the rocks.

“A reliquary,” I force out, the word tasting of copper and salt. “Dragon relics sealed away during the First War.”

Creed exchanges a look with one of his subordinates. “Whose relics?”

I shake my head, paying for the movement with a spike of nausea. “Can’t… can’t see.”

“Try harder,” Creed insists.

An involuntary sound escapes me—half gasp, half growl. I want to tell him exactly where he can shove his demands, but I need what little control I have. Instead, I cling to the fragments, trying to assemble them into something coherent.

“Sealed by warding magic,” I manage. “Old wards. Witch wards.”

That gets his attention. “Your ancestors hid dragon relics?”

“Not… not mine.” The distinction is important. “An older branch. Before the split.”

The monitors begin to wail as my pulse races dangerously. My vision blurs, darkness creeping in at the edges.

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