And I fell.
I woke to the hue of the moon shining in—silver light cutting across the floor. I sat up slowly, heart still racing, throat dry. The dream clung to me. My skin burned where phantom hands had touched, and the scent of blood hadn’t yet faded from my nose.
The door creaked open. Malachi stepped through quietly. His eyes landed on me at once.
“What happened?”
I tried for steadiness. “Nothing,” I said, too quickly. “Just a nightmare.”
He didn’t move closer. But his eyes sharpened, and when he spoke again, his voice was low. Careful. “You should know,” he said, “the dreams might not always be yours.”
I blinked.
“Dream-walking,” he continued. “You’re one of the only people I’ve met in centuries who can do it. Sometimes the dreams are just fragments of fear—shadows feeding on weakness, twisting what you dread into something cruel. Other times they’re glimpses. Of what was. Or what could be.”
His eyes fixed on mine.
My throat tightened. “I am so tired of all of these things showing up and expecting me to interpret them when I have no idea who—or what—I am now.”
He nodded once. “They’re only possibilities. Warnings. Memories that don’t belong to you. And sometimes… nothing at all. Just the dark testing its grip.”
The fire had burned down to embers, but warmth lingered in his words. Or maybe it was in the way he looked at me. I wondered how many nights he’d fought through visions like this, how many times he’d woken gasping in the dark.
My fingers curled tighter in the blanket. Kaelith’s voice still echoed in my skull. The feel of hands that weren’t his—then were, then weren’t—clung to me. I wanted to ask which parts were real. If any of it was me.
Instead I forced the thinnest smile I could manage. “Thank you,” I whispered.
Malachi tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, but he let it go.
“Let’s go make sure Santiago finds his tavern,” he said after a beat, probably trying to cut through the weight of the moment. Before I could answer, a soft knock broke the silence.
The door eased open. Eryndis stood in the frame, lantern-lightglinting off the runes at her brow. Her gaze flicked to Malachi, then to me. “I’ll take her,” she said simply.
Malachi didn’t move. Not right away. Then, with reluctance, he gave a single nod.
Eryndis stepped inside, her voice gentler now. “The tavern is just beyond the lower bridge. Follow the lanterns strung in pairs. They’ll take you to the hall. You’ll hear the music before you see it.”
She held out her hand, not commanding, just offering.
“Come. The night waits for you.”
47
Malachi
Lanterns glowedin the branches above me, their light swaying in the damp breeze. Rope bridges stretched between massive trunks, creaking softly beneath my steps. For a long time, I walked in silence, unsure if I was inside a dream or something far stranger.
I walked the bridges alone, the sound of water and faint laughter rising through the canopy. I intended to go straight to the tavern. Instead, my feet carried me deeper into the heart of this place.
“Malachi?”
The voice pulled me still. Gravelly and weathered. But familiar.
An old Keeper leaned in the doorway of a home carved into the trunk of an oak that must’ve stood a thousand years. His hair had gone white, his back bowed, but his eyes were sharp, and I knew them.
“Darren,” I said, my voice catching on the name.
He smiled faintly. “I thought you were lost with the rest.”