The deep slumber Arthur had fallen into was a false sanctuary.

  It was not long before the pain in his body bled into his mind, seeding a hazy, hyper-realistic nightmare.

  He was in the palace again.

  The marble floors of the corridor were cold beneath his bare feet, a chillingly familiar sensation. He was drawn, as if by an unseen string, to the heavy oak door of his uncle's study. The porcelain vase stood sentinel beside it. He brushed against it, and it toppled with a porcelain scream that echoed in the unnatural silence . But this time, the door did not fly open. No furious, loving uncle emerged to cast a protective shadow.

  With a trembling hand, Arthur pushed the door inward.

  The study was a charnel house. The air was thick with the coppery tang of slaughter.

  Valerius, Barnaby, and Tybalt were there, but they were arranged as a grotesque centerpiece, their severed heads resting on the polished table, their dead eyes staring into nothing. Behind them, where the royal phoenix should have been, hung the savage banner of the three howling wolves.

  "No… no, no…" The words were a choked, wet sob.

  His legs gave way, and he collapsed to his knees, tears blurring the horrific tableau into a watercolor of red and black.

  The distant fires of the burning city pulsed against the windows, bathing the room in rhythmic, hellish flashes of light.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, and the world shifted.

  Sunlight. The scent of cut grass and warm hay. He was a child again, walking through the serene grounds of the king's summer estate.

  The laughter of women drifted from a nearby villa, and a boy's curiosity pulled him toward the sound.

  He pushed open the door and stepped into a haze of sweat, spilled wine, and sour carnality. His father, the King, was entangled with several men and women, his eyes glazed with vice. Those eyes found Arthur.

  A silver wine goblet flew across the room, striking his temple with a sickening thud. Blood, hot and sticky, poured down his face, blinding one eye.

  "You!" the King roared, his voice a thunderclap of pure hatred. "Murderer!"

  "I'm no—" Arthur's denial was swallowed by a brutal kick to his ribs. Punches rained down, a hand tangled in his hair, slamming his head against the floor.

  "Lord, he is the prince!" a voice cried out—a voice he knew, but couldn't place.

  The King ignored it. He drew his sword, the polished steel glinting. Arthur scrambled backward, a trapped animal. The familiar voice pleaded again, and then the man threw himself between the King and the boy. The sword fell. A head rolled across the floor, coming to rest at Arthur's feet. It was Tybalt.

  Arthur screamed and ran, the world dissolving around him. He fell, and the soft grass of the estate became the gnarled, slick roots of the Weeping Woods. Heavy iron chains appeared on his wrists. Strange, guttural noises echoed through the oppressive dark.

  "We've got them," a soldier's voice snarled.

  One by one, they were dragged into a clearing and forced to their knees. His sister, Maeve, the twins, even Tybalt, their faces hollowed out and bowed in defeat. The last was Ingrid. She was the only one standing, the only one who met his gaze, her expression an unreadable mask.

  Then the source of the noise revealed itself.

  The colossal, obsidian head of Malythor, the dragon from the museum, pushed through the trees, its eyes burning like twin suns.

  It positioned itself before the kneeling heroes, its throat glowing with nascent fire. Arthur was held fast, forced to watch. His eyes locked with Ingrid's. A pained, terrible smile twisted her lips, and though no sound reached him, he read the final, broken word.

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  "Help…"

  A violent purple Aura erupted from every pore of Arthur's body.

  He launched himself forward, a desperate, primal scream tearing from his soul, his hands outstretched to save her.

  He caught her, but it was too late. The figure in his arms was a smoking husk of ash and memory, her body disintegrating in his grasp.

  "NO! NO! HOW COULD I LET THIS HAPPEN?" His silent scream was a void, his tears falling on the cinders that were once her face. A half-burnt hand, impossibly, rose to touch his cheek. Her lips moved, but the words were lost. Muffled voices began to bleed through the nightmare, a sound like shouting from underwater.

  "—ARTHUR!—"

  The voice grew clearer, closer.

  "—ARTHUR! WAKE UP!—"

  With a final, desperate shout of his name, Arthur's eyes flew open.

  He was on his bed, drenched in the cold sweat of phantom terrors, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. His entire body was shaking. A pair of arms were wrapped around him in a fierce, trembling embrace. It was Lyra.

  "Don't you ever do that again," she whispered, her voice choked with a pain so raw it was almost unrecognizable.

  She held him for a moment longer before releasing him. He looked around, disoriented.

  Ingrid was just getting off the bed, where she had clearly been supporting his head.

  Maeve and the twins were entering the room, their faces etched with concern.

  Faelan stood framed in the doorway, a silent, grim sentinel. The memory of the dream was already fading, leaving only the ghost of its terror behind.

  Arthur tried to sit up, but a current of agony shot through him. "Oww…"

  "Don't move," Lyra commanded, her tone shifting back to something more serious, though the tremor remained. "Your body has healed, but your mind hasn't caught up. Give it time."

  "What happened to me?" Arthur asked, his own voice hoarse.

  Faelan stepped into the room, his expression calm and steady. "Well, boy," he began, "you had your first proper taste of Aura."

  The day's events crashed back into Arthur's mind: the agonizing snap of his bones, the fury, the shame, and finally, Ingrid's face, streaked with tears.

  He glanced at her.

  She stood beside the bed, her arms crossed, refusing to meet his eyes.

  But he could see it—the maelstrom of anger, worry, and fear she was trying so desperately to conceal.

  "Faelan. Not now," Lyra snarled, her gaze burning with a fire that made Faelan take an involuntary step back.

  She turned back to Arthur, her hand gently touching his cheek. "Rest tonight. We'll talk in the morning." She looked at Ingrid. "Could you bring him some soup?"

  Ingrid gave a curt nod and left without a word.

  Maeve stepped forward, placing a small, leaf-wrapped bundle on his bedside table. "Take this after you eat. It will help you sleep."

  Elwin managed a hesitant laugh. "Don't push yourself so hard, kid. You gave us all a scare."

  They took their leave.

  Only Lyra and Faelan remained.

  Arthur stared at his own hands, the silence in the room heavy and suffocating.

  Then he heard a soft, choked sob. It was his sister.

  "I really thought I'd lost you this time," she cried, wiping furiously at her tears.

  Faelan placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch grounding. "Let him rest, Lyra." He looked at Arthur. "Goodnight, kid. You did well."

  They left him in the quiet dark.

  A few moments later, Ingrid returned with a bowl of soup.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, the moonlight from the window illuminating her face, turning her hair to spun silver.

  Arthur tried to raise his arms to take the bowl, but they felt like lead.

  Ingrid made no move to hand it to him.

  She simply dipped the spoon and brought it to his lips.

  A hot flush of embarrassment crept up his neck, but he was too weak to protest. He opened his mouth.

  "Why was everyone so scared?" he asked, his voice muffled.

  "You were dying," Ingrid stated, her voice flat, as if reporting the weather.

  The word sent a chill through him. "How?"

  "Mana Death," she explained, feeding him another spoonful. "You forced your body to channel pure mana before your Mandala was ready.

  It fractured. It was leaking raw mana into your system… like a ruptured heart. Aeris had to channel the natural mana of the world to repair it. The effort overwhelmed her. She's resting now."

  Arthur's face fell. "All I ever do is cause trouble for people."

  Ingrid's response was to push the next spoonful into his mouth a little more forcefully, her impassive mask showing the barest hint of irritation. "She cares about you, you know. Your sister."

  Arthur couldn't think of a response.

  "When your condition worsened, she became… agitated," Ingrid continued. "Had you died, I have no doubt she would have killed Faelan with her own hands."

  Arthur stared at his lap. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "For being such a burden to you."

  Ingrid fed him another spoonful. "There is no need. You gave me the daggers. This is… an equivalent exchange."

  When the soup was gone, she stood to leave.

  "Wait," he said. "Could you help me downstairs? I need to talk to her."

  Ingrid paused at the door, looking back at the raw determination on his face. She walked back, set the bowl down, and asked, "Can you stand?"

  Arthur swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  He wobbled as he pushed himself up, his body a map of deep aches.

  Ingrid was there in an instant, his arm over her shoulder, her small frame a surprisingly steady anchor as they began the slow, painful walk down the stairs.