Chapter 29 Esag
ESAG
The vision hit Esag like a cresting wave, sudden and disorienting. One moment, he was sitting at his workbench, carefully sanding the rough edges of a figurine, and the next—
He wasn't himself anymore.
The workshop vanished. The familiar scent of wood shavings and linseed oil disappeared, replaced by something else. Old paper. Leather bindings. The faint mustiness of old manuscripts mixed with the artificial coolness of climate control.
Esag's hands moved without his conscious direction, turning pages with care.
Except they weren't his hands. They were smaller, more delicate, with olive-toned skin instead of his pale complexion.
He could feel the texture of the aged paper beneath the elegant fingers that weren't his, sense the weight of concentration that wasn't his own.
It wasn't hard to guess whose hands he was seeing and through whose eyes he was watching them.
The hands belonged to Tula, and he was occupying a corner in her mind.
This was different from his previous visions. He wasn't observing Tula from outside—he was experiencing the world through her eyes, feeling what she felt, existing inside her consciousness like a passenger in someone else's body.
It was profoundly unsettling.
"Tamira, can you pass me the leather treatment?" The words came from Tula's mouth, shaped by her voice, but Esag felt them forming, felt the movement of lips and tongue and breath.
His—Tula's—gaze shifted to a woman across the restoration table. Stunning was the first word that came to mind—heart-shaped face, full lips, and eyes a shade of blue that shouldn't exist.
This was Tamira, one of the females Areana wanted rescued. Esag tried to memorize every detail of her face, suspecting that this information might be important.
"Here." Tamira's voice was cultured, refined, as she passed over a small jar. "Are you feeling better today? You seemed on edge yesterday."
"I'm fine." The lie tasted bitter on Tula's tongue, and Esag felt the guilt that accompanied it—thick and choking, making it hard to breathe.
She wasn't fine. She was drowning in secrets and guilt, knowing she would abandon these people whom she regarded as her family. It was tearing her apart, but she couldn't show that she was distressed. Had to hide it.
"Tula, look at this." Another voice, and Tula's gaze shifted to a different woman, also stunning, but very different than Tamira.
"What are you showing me, Beulah?"
Beulah. Esag repeated the name in his mind, trying to cement it in memory along with her features.
"See how the original binder used double cords for reinforcement? We should replicate that when we repair this section."
Tula nodded, and Esag felt the movement, felt the slight ache in her neck from hours of bending over her work. He also felt something else—affection for Beulah, mixed with guilt so intense it made his stomach churn.
"Sarah's going to be insufferable if she wins this bet," another woman called from across the library.
"What bet?" Tula asked, grateful for the distraction from her spiraling thoughts.
"She wagered that Raviki couldn't go an entire day without complaining about the construction noise." The woman grinned. "Raviki lost. She already complained twice this morning."
"I did not complain," Raviki protested from her position near the window. "I merely observed that the hammering was making it difficult to concentrate."
"That's complaining," Sarah called out.
The easy banter washed over Esag, and through Tula's consciousness he felt the bittersweet ache of it. This was family. These women who'd been trapped together for millennia supported each other, teased each other, and loved each other.
And Tula was going to leave them all behind.
The guilt was overwhelming. It filled Tula's chest until Esag thought it might crack her ribs, made her throat tight, and her eyes burn with unshed tears. She wanted to at least say goodbye, but she couldn't.
She had to protect Areana. Had to maintain the illusion. Had to let them believe she'd chosen death over captivity.
Esag understood that intimately. He'd carried similar guilt for five thousand years—the guilt of disappointing people, of making choices that hurt others, of being unable to save everyone. He recognized the bitter taste of it.
I'm so sorry, Tula thought, and Esag felt the words echo through the borrowed consciousness. I'm so sorry I can't take you with me. I'm so sorry I have to lie. I'm so sorry for everything.
Unlike other visions, this one refused to end. Esag was trapped inside Tula's mind, observing as she worked, consulting with the others on this and that. Each interaction was colored by her guilt, by the knowledge that these were her last days among them.
Finally, mercifully, it was time for lunch.
The ladies filed out of the library together, moving through windowless corridors that felt too much like a tomb despite the elegant decor. Tula's hand drifted to her belly, and Esag felt the slight swell there, the evidence of the life growing inside her.
This was why she had to leave. For her child. So her son wouldn't be stolen away, raised as a warrior for a madman's army.
The dining room was elegant, with high ceilings and soft lighting. The table was already laden with food—fresh bread, cheeses, fruits, grilled meats. It looked like a feast.
Two men were seated at the table when the ladies arrived. Tula's gaze went immediately to the first one—average height, brown hair, pleasant features. When he saw her, his face lit up with a smile that was probably meant to be charming.
Tony.
Esag felt an immediate, visceral dislike for the man that surprised him with its intensity.
There was something about Tony's posture, the way he held himself, that set Esag's teeth on edge.
The human lacked substance. No backbone.
He smiled too easily, agreed too readily, seemed to bend whichever way the wind blew.
Then Esag caught himself.
These weren't his feelings. They were Tula's—buried deep in her subconscious, where she didn't have to acknowledge them, but present nonetheless. She cared for Tony, maybe even loved him in her own way, but some part of her recognized his weaknesses and resented him for them.
"There you are," Tony said, pulling out the chair beside him. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."
"Never," Tula said, and it wasn't a lie. She would be forever connected to Tony through the life they had created together.
Another bolt of sorrow speared through her as she thought about her son growing up without his father.
As she sat, Tony took her hand under the table. The touch should have been comforting. Instead, Esag felt Tula's irritation intensify, and she fought the urge to pull away.
She was already mourning this relationship. Already letting go.
A man sat across from them, and when Tula looked at him, Esag took the opportunity to pay closer attention.
Since he was the only other male around the table, Esag assumed that was Elias.
There was something different about this one. Unlike the shifty, uncertain Tony, Elias had presence—a calm, centered quality that spoke of age and experience. His eyes were older than his face, holding wisdom that came from a long life.
But he couldn't be immortal. If he were, Tamira would have known. Elias couldn't have fangs. Besides, other immortal males would have felt if he was a threat, and since Navuh allowed him in the harem, he obviously didn't regard him as one.
Yet everything about him indicated an old soul.
How could that be?
Esag tried to focus on Elias and understand what made him different, but Tula's attention kept drifting to Tony's hand squeezing hers, to Tamira who was sitting beside Elias with a complicated expression that Esag couldn't quite read, to the guilt that never stopped churning in her gut, to the worry for the life growing inside of her.
"You're quiet today," Tony said, sounding concerned.
"You know that I have trouble sleeping." Tula reached for a slice of bread. "I'm always tired these days."
Across the table, Elias watched her with those too-old eyes of his. Did he suspect? Could he sense that something was off, that Tula was hiding secrets that affected his future?
If he did, he said nothing. Just smiled and turned his attention to Tamira, engaging in a quiet conversation that was too low for Tula to hear.
The lunch felt endless. The food tasted like cardboard in Tula's mouth, making her nauseous. Each exchange required tremendous effort to maintain the facade. The guilt pressed heavier on her with every passing moment, crushing the air from her lungs.
I can't do this, Tula thought desperately. I can't leave them. I can't—
But she could. She would. Because the alternative was letting her child be taken away from her and living with that loss for eternity, becoming another broken mother in a harem full of women who'd lost their sons to Navuh's army.
She'd made her choice. Now she just had to find a way to live with it.
Esag felt tears burning behind Tula's eyes, felt her throat constrict with emotion she couldn't show. The guilt was going to eat her alive before the rescue even happened.
I'm sorry, Tula thought again, her gaze sweeping over the table, over Tamira and Tony, over Elias and the ladies scattered around the dining room. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. Please—
The vision wavered.
Esag tried to hold on to it, but it was like grasping smoke. The dining room began to fade, colors bleeding away, sounds becoming muffled and distant. The vision was collapsing, and his consciousness was slipping away from Tula's.
He found himself back in his workshop, gasping for air as if he'd been submerged underwater.
Esag's hands, his own pale and familiar hands, were clenched on the edge of his workbench. His heart raced and sweat beaded on his forehead.
The vision had been like no other he'd ever had.
Overwhelming, intimate, intrusive.
It was nothing like his previous visions where he'd observed from a comfortable distance. This time, he'd been inside Tula's head, feeling what she felt, drowning in her guilt and fear and desperate hope.
Esag recognized all of it because he'd lived it himself. Different circumstances, different choices, but the same fundamental agony of impossible choices, of being unable to save everyone.
He stood on shaking legs, steadying himself against the workbench. His tools lay scattered where he'd dropped them when the vision hit. The figurine he'd been working on lay broken on the floor.
None of that mattered right now.
He needed to tell Wonder about this vision. Needed to share what he'd learned about the people Tula would be leaving behind—Tamira and Beulah and Sarah and Liliat and Raviki. About Tony and about Elias, who was something other than what he appeared to be.
Most importantly, he needed to tell her about Tula's guilt. About how this rescue was going to break something inside her sister and leave scars that might never fully heal.
Esag grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. The short walk to the café felt like it took an hour, his thoughts spinning with images from the vision.
Wonder needed to understand that saving Tula and her baby might not be enough. She would need to help her sister live with the guilt of survival, too.
Esag knew from experience that, sometimes, living with your choices was harder than making them in the first place.
Tula was about to learn that lesson in the cruelest way possible.
When he got to the café, only a few patrons were sitting at the tables and the kiosk was closed. It was Saturday, he realized. There was no service on the weekend, and people made use of the vending machines.
He walked over to the one that made cappuccinos, inserted the clan credit card he'd been given, and when the coffee was ready, he took it to the table.
Should he call Wonder?
Anandur was back from Safe Harbor, and it felt awkward to call someone else's mate on a weekend.
Instead, Esag sent her a text, Had another vision about Tula, do you want to call me?
The answer came back right away. Can you come over? Anandur wants to hear about your vision, too.
He put the lid back on the cup and texted, I'm on my way.