Daimon’s assigned room was smaller than the one the Duchess occupied—spare, with a narrow bed, an old desk, and a battered lantern swaying faintly from its hook above the door. The air pressed damp and cold around his shoulders, seeping through the rough stones, settling deep in his chest.

  The valet who led him up kept a careful distance, eyes skittering away from Daimon’s face. “If you need anything, sir—there’s a bell,” the man offered, voice too loud for the small room. “For water. Or… if you take a fever in the night—someone will come.”

  Daimon only nodded. He didn’t trust his voice to sound steady. His mouth was dry, his tongue leaden.

  The door closed with a soft click. Silence swelled, oppressive.

  He perched on the edge of the bed, hands white-knuckled on the quilt, waiting for his pulse to slow. Instead, it fluttered wild in his throat—too fast, then skipping, then slow. A flush of heat chased chills down his spine.

  Not now. Not yet. You can hold. Just until morning, until the portal, until Ludmilla.

  He pressed two fingers to his wrist. The thrum was wrong—uneven, like something scraping at the inside of his skin.

  He focused on the cracks in the wall, tried to count the stones, but the lines blurred and twisted at the edges of his vision. The lantern above the door buzzed, the flame stretching, pulling apart. Colors bled into the stone, blue and violet where there should have been gold.

  He closed his eyes, only to have them snap open again—a faint ringing built behind his ears, growing louder, like wind shrieking through a broken window. He sucked in a breath, heart pounding.

  Just a night. Just a few hours. You can hold. Ludmilla will know what to do. She always does.

  A memory flickered—her voice sharp, her hands firm on his shoulders, the taste of bitter tonic on his tongue. Her words—If it starts, don’t let go. Anchor yourself. Hold for as long as you can.

  He tried. Gods, he tried. Recited the old rhymes, whispered them into the dark.

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

  But the words felt frayed, torn at the edges. His thoughts kept slipping—images skittered through his mind: blood on stone, fire in the chapel, the taste of iron and fear.

  He glanced at his hands. They were shaking. He flexed them into fists, felt the cold sweat gather at his temples. The sense of wrongness pulsed through him—like a crack spreading through glass, growing louder with every breath.

  He tried to remember the way back, the door, the bell. The world felt thin, ready to split apart at the seams.

  Just until dawn. Just hold.

  He lay back, eyes open and wild, watching shadows lengthen across the ceiling, feeling the tide of something vast and hungry pressing against the inside of his skull.

  If I let go, she won’t be here to catch me. No one will.

  He tried to fix on something real—something that belonged to the world outside his skull. Dinner. The hall. The heat from the hearth, the weight of Thorne’s stare.

  Edric’s voice echoed, blunt as always: “Eat, boy. You’ll need it, the way you look.” The memory made Daimon’s lips twitch, a flicker of amusement cut through with nausea. He remembered the taste of bread—stale, but real—the bite of the wine, the scrape of a fork. The scrape of Thorne’s voice, loud and ordinary. Safe.

  But now, even those memories began to stretch and warp, as if someone had taken a knife to the edges. The hall grew too bright in his mind, the laughter too sharp, until the faces blurred and bled into one another. He blinked, and for a moment the lantern in his room flickered, the stone around him dissolving to shadow and noise.

  He gripped the quilt harder, willing himself to hold on. Remember: bread, Thorne’s laughter, the weight of a cup in your hand. You’re here. You’re real. You’re—

  The ringing in his ears rose, a static rush. Shadows danced at the corners of his vision, the room tilting, the air growing thin.

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  He didn’t remember standing up, but suddenly he was on his feet, swaying. The door seemed too far away, the ceiling bending overhead, the floor rolling like a ship’s deck. His hands fumbled for the wall, for anything steady, but even the stones felt insubstantial under his touch.

  Hold on. Just hold. Just—

  The next thing he knew, he was in the corridor—cold air on his face, the world too bright, footsteps echoing in a place he didn’t remember crossing. He pressed a hand to the stone, anchoring himself, heart pounding as he tried to remember how he’d gotten here.

  He was slipping. Slipping out of himself, out of the safety of anything Ludmilla could fix.

  No. Not yet. Just until morning. Just until she comes for me.

  He drifted through the keep as if half-dreaming, boots whispering over chill stone, never quite sure if he was moving of his own will or being tugged by something outside himself. Shadows pooled at the base of every pillar. He pressed his palm to the cold, trying to summon the memory of Ludmilla’s hands on his shoulders, her words biting through the fog—Hold. Breathe. Idiot boy, don’t you dare—

  He murmured one of her rhymes under his breath. “Three for silence, four for light—five to hold the world upright.” The syllables steadied him for a heartbeat. The next, they scattered, snatched by some current only he could feel.

  He clung to whatever floated up from the dark: Selina’s laughter, distant as a summer evening in the Crescent. The velvet hush of her voice teasing him about his hair, her fingers warm on his wrist.

  Patzì’s weight on his chest—soft, real, snoring, alive, don’t let go—

  The tangle of lamps on the Crescent’s stair, light on red glass, the familiar, shabby curve of the banister under his hand.

  The keep smelled wrong—no incense, no clove, only damp, stone, and distant woodsmoke. He blinked, and for a moment, he was sure he saw the red glow of Ludmilla’s study at the end of the corridor—then it was gone, just torchlight, flickering over faded banners.

  He passed a servant in the hall, mumbled a greeting, barely registering the man’s wary look.

  Not safe. You’re not safe here. You can’t slip, not now, not in front of them. Keep walking. Find a wall, count your steps.

  Pain flashed behind his eyes, sharp and cold—a reminder, at least, that he was still in his own body. He recited another rhyme, this one patched together from scraps of Ressan’s notes and the nonsense spells Ludmilla drilled into him. “Five paces, turn; six for home. Seven is safe—eight, never alone.” He counted with each step, fingers moving, marking the pulse at his wrist, the ache in his ankle from the portal’s last bite.

  A door ahead—he paused, resting his forehead against the wood. Gale. He’s here. Trust. He said he’d be here. The notes are safe, locked in the case. If you lose the thread now, everything falls—

  He realized, with a lurch of panic, that he’d been standing there for minutes, unmoving, lost somewhere between the Crescent and this strange, echoing keep. The cold leached through his shirt. The corridor stretched out, long and formless. Somewhere, a bell tolled the hour.

  Not yet, he told himself. Hold. Just until morning.

  He forced himself onward, dragging one foot in front of the other, chasing the memory of lamplight and laughter, warmth and safety—anything to keep the dark from tearing him apart.

  The world pitched—nausea rising. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t sure if he would vomit or simply fall through the stone at his feet.

  He blinked. The hallway was gone.

  Cold bit at his hands. Dawn was burning the courtyard to silver and frost. The last thing he remembered was the echo of Ludmilla’s voice, a lamp swinging overhead, his own boots on ancient stone.

  The world wavered—edges bending, sound humming through stone and bone. But then a shape coalesced through the haze—boots, coat, a tall outline backlit by the weak sun. A voice followed, low and rough but familiar enough to feel safe.

  “Good morning, Dai.” Gale stood at the far end of the courtyard, coat slung over one arm, shoulders drawn tight but his smile quick, almost teasing. “Glad to see you beat me here. Though I have to say, you look even worse than yesterday—which I didn’t think was possible.”

  Daimon tried to smile. He felt the movement, but it belonged to someone else. “Didn’t sleep much,” he managed, voice hoarse. “You look… better. Or maybe just awake.”

  Gale’s eyes flickered, something unreadable passing there—a flicker of grief and exhaustion quickly veiled. “Barely,” he admitted. “But at least we’re both on our feet.”

  A gust of wind rattled the gates. Daimon’s hands shook as he flexed his fingers, reaching for the shape of the spell. It should have been easy. But his vision slipped, the world pulsing at the corners.

  Gale’s voice drifted in, gentler now. “You sure you’re up for this? We can wait another hour. I doubt a little delay will change Ludmilla’s mood now.”

  “No,” Daimon said too quickly, too sharp. “It’s fine. I… I want to go home.” He caught himself, tried again. “Back. To Kentar.”

  A beat passed. Gale nodded, quietly watching him for a moment—eyes missing nothing, yet choosing, for once, not to press.

  “All right. Do your magic, Dai.”

  Daimon reached for the magic. Nothing came, not as it should—no velvet curtain, no soft drift of silk and light. Instead, the air snapped. It tore open—a ragged, buzzing wound of light that screamed against the quiet dawn.

  Gale recoiled a step, the joking mask falling away. His hand rose, fingers twitching as if to ward off a threat. “Dai—?”

  “It’s fine,” Daimon lied, the world spinning, his own body feeling like a distant signal. “Just… tired. Happens.”

  He stepped through first—he couldn’t trust his hands, couldn’t trust his voice. The rip in the air swallowed him whole: cold, frantic, everything spinning into static and dark.

  Hold. Just until the Crescent. Just until Ludmilla. Just hold, hold, hold…

  Behind him, Gale’s voice was lost to the surge, but the memory of it—the warmth, the worry— was a final, fraying thread to cling to. It was enough to carry him forward.

  At least for one more crossing.