The guest wing corridor was a tomb of cold, quiet air. Daimon leaned against the wall, arms folded tight, watching dust swirl in the strips of late sun that crawled across the floor. Every sound—boots on stone, a voice carried from the stairs—echoed oddly, as if the air was both too thin and too heavy to carry them properly.

  He counted his own heartbeats, then the stones in the wall, then the words to a half-remembered ward, lips moving in a silent rhyme.

  Three for silence, four for light; five to hold the world upright.

  It didn’t help. There was a prickle under his skin, a wrongness that started at the soles of his feet and climbed, itching, up his legs and spine. The last portal hadn’t made him sick—not in the usual way. This was different, older. A vibrant, singing clarity that threatened to peel him apart from the inside, sharp as glass under fingernails, loud as a scream in a silent room.

  He pressed two fingers to the inside of his wrist. One, two, three. The pulse fluttered, stuttered, steadied.

  Not the end. Not yet.

  He tried to focus—on the warped reflection in the window glass, on the thick green of the old curtains, on the edge of his own boots. The world twitched at the corners, colors bleeding into each other, shadows gathering where they shouldn’t. The lantern at the far end of the hall buzzed and dimmed, and for a heartbeat, he saw not a flame, but a knot of frantic, shimmering energy—he blinked, and it was just a lantern again.

  He murmured another rhyme, slower, a charm Ludmilla had drilled into him for moments like these.

  When the mind runs thin and the edges fray / close the gates and turn away—

  His tongue stumbled on the last words. He clenched his jaw. He could hold. He had to.

  The guest wing door opened with a click.

  Daimon tensed, willing himself to look ordinary. A man emerged—older, broad-shouldered, hair iron-grey, with a tired apprentice trailing behind.

  Master Andrieu’s gaze swept the corridor like a scalpel. It caught on Daimon, lingering on the fine tremor in his hands.

  “You look half dead, boy.”

  Daimon managed a tight, careful shrug. “Long journey. Little sleep.”

  The apprentice shot him a look—half sympathy, half wariness. Andrieu didn’t smile.

  “If you’re going to faint, do it outside the sickroom. Otherwise, get some air. Or water. Or both.”

  The cerusician studied Daimon a moment longer, then moved on, boots ringing against the stone.

  Daimon closed his eyes, breathing out slow. The world stayed intact, at least for now.

  He didn’t notice lord Daskar approach and pass him until Alven’s voice broke the hush, smooth and practiced, carrying just enough to be overheard.

  “Master Dekarios! You’ve finally managed to tear yourself away from those utterly pressing matters that detained you. We are honoured to finally be worthy of your attention.”

  Across the corridor, Gale had just pulled the guest room door closed, careful not to let the latch snap. The quiet laughter of the two women inside still lingered in his ears, bright and brief—a sound out of place in a house built for defense.

  He turned and found Alven already approaching, boots soundless on the flagstones, his posture relaxed and his smile perfectly honed.

  Gale met the smile with one of his own—cool, precise, not reaching his eyes. “It seemed time, lord Daskar, to make certain the rumors of your hospitality weren’t exaggerated.” He let the words settle, then added, voice softer but edged: “Though I’m concerned about your protocols. Your guards see fit to announce our Duchess’ exact location to any stranger at the gate.”

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  A flash of annoyance cut through Alven’s poise—gone as quickly as it came.

  “Durnhal’s hospitality is renowned,” he replied, tone light, “but so is our vigilance. We make it our custom to greet visitors directly—especially those who have a habit of arriving unannounced. I suppose it’s a lesson in both caution and courtesy.”

  Gale didn’t blink. “Vigilance.” He repeated the word as if tasting something foul. “A quality most needed at the walls, not just in greeting guests inside them.”

  A beat of silence. The polished warmth on Alven’s face didn’t slip so much as freeze, the welcome draining from his eyes.

  “No fortress is impregnable, Master Dekarios,” Alven replied, his tone shifting from welcoming to coolly defensive. “We do what we can with the men and resources available. The burdens of defense are often misunderstood by those who merely study them from afar.”

  Gale’s expression sharpened. “I understand the burden perfectly, lord Daskar. It’s the cost of failure I find myself newly acquainted with.”

  The air between them grew cold. Alven’s smile returned, not as welcome now, but as armor, polished and immaculate. He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve with minute, elegant precision.

  “Then your insights will be all the more valuable,” he said, the edge in his voice sheathed once more in courtesy. He glanced toward Daimon, then back to Gale. “You will both join us for the evening council, I trust? We would be grateful for your unique perspective.”

  “We would not miss it,” Gale replied, his voice dangerously pleasant. His eyes flicked to Alven’s hand, resting too close to his sword. A silent challenge. “I am eager to provide a first-hand account of the structural weaknesses I observed on my way in. I’ve compiled several compelling recommendations.”

  Alven made to turn away, then paused. His gaze made a slow, deliberate journey from Gale’s polished boots to his neatly tied hair. A final, flawless expression of disdain.

  “Do try to find something less… theatrical to wear. We prefer practicality to performance here on the border.”

  Then he was gone, his boots silent on the stones, leaving the insult hanging in the cold air.

  Gale stood frozen, the words theatrical and performance burning in his mind.

  A boot scuffed on stone. The older guard—Kael—stood at his post, his face a grim mask. “You handled him well, Master Dekarios. Lord Daskar is quick with a spear, but slow to understand that a good ruler needs more than a sharp point.”

  Gale turned, the movement stiff. The anger Alven had sparked was now a cold, focused thing. “Tell me what happened that night.”

  Kael did not hesitate. He spoke low and fast, a soldier delivering a report to the only person who mattered now. He told him of the feast, the bells, the coordinated strikes. “Her Grace went to the chapel to help with the wounded. Lieutenant Verren ordered four of us with her. Thom here was there.”

  The younger guard beside him—Thom—jumped as if struck. He looked at the floor, his voice barely a whisper. “Yes, sir. The chapel was packed—people kept coming, hurt and scared. Her Grace worked right beside Mother Elna, stitching cuts, holding down the screaming ones.” He swallowed hard. “Then they broke in.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We moved to engage, but…” Thom’s voice cracked. “Her Grace ordered us to hold position. Too many civilians between us and them. We couldn’t risk a fight in that crowd.”

  Gale nodded slowly. The tactical picture was becoming clear—and it was a nightmare. His stomach twisted. “So you held.”

  Thom’s next words came out in a rush, choked with guilt. “But Marcus, he… he broke rank. Just a step. A single step. The blade caught him in the liver. He was dead before he hit the stones. And even then, she wouldn’t let us charge. She knelt with him. She was with him when…”

  He couldn’t finish. Kael did it for him, his voice gravelly with grief. “One of the bastards recognized her. Said something about the ‘Golden Banner.’ The dagger was in her side before anyone could blink. They were ghosts, Master Dekarios. In and out.”

  Thom finally looked up, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I should have been faster. I should have put myself in the way. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Gale saw it then: a packed room full of wounded civilians. Four guards against professional killers. An impossible situation in which Fran’s order wasn’t just brave; it was the only one that made sense. To attack was to get everyone slaughtered.

  “You followed your orders,” he said, his voice low and unwavering. “You protected the people in that room by holding your line. Disobeying her would have caused a massacre. You have nothing to apologize for.”

  The words were a command. An absolution. The young guard’s shoulders loosened, just a fraction, the unbearable weight of his guilt shared at last.

  Then Gale’s own realization hit him like a physical blow.

  I could have stopped this.

  The thought was surgical in its precision. A ward on the chapel door. An illusion to hide Fran among the wounded. One well-placed sleep spell in that crowded room. The solutions unfolded in his mind with devastating clarity—every spell he could have cast, every life he could have saved, if he had been there instead of chasing shadows in another city.

  His absence had been a hole in their defenses. They had all bled through it.

  Gale looked from Kael to Thom, the names of the dead settling in his soul like stones.

  “The failure was not yours,” he repeated, the words now feeling like a lie on his own tongue. “It was in the walls long before they broke.”

  He turned. The hallway was no longer just a corridor; it was a path to a reckoning. His eyes found Daimon, but they did not see the pallor of his skin or the tremor in his hands. They only saw a familiar face in a sea of strangers.

  Daimon watched him, silent, his own chest tight with something he couldn’t name. Gale’s face was a mask of ice, but his eyes were a storm.

  “Daimon,” Gale said, his voice cold and clear. “It seems we have a council to attend.”