The estate slept uneasily.

  I moved through its darkened halls without purpose, without destination. The hush of midnight stretched around me, broken only by the distant ticking of a grandfather clock and the slow creak of old wood settling. I wasn't looking for anything, but my feet refused stillness, my body unwilling to be idle while my mind roiled.

  Joy. I had touched her to help, and still managed to hurt her. I had awakened something she wasn't ready to face. And yet she had trusted me enough to return to herself.

  I paused at the top of the grand staircase, looking down into the shadows of the entrance hall. Moonlight spilled through tall windows, casting silver pools across the marble floor. My shadow stretched long and distorted against the wall.

  I hadn't slept properly since we found her in that cellar. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her—naked, bleeding, with Marcelo's knife in her back. I saw the brand on her shoulder. I saw her eyes when she collapsed. I heard her voice, raw with pain.

  You found me.

  Those words haunted me. As if she'd never doubted we would come. As if she'd been waiting, counting the hours, certain we'd appear.

  She'd been asleep when I left her room, her breathing finally settled into the rhythm of true rest. I'd sat with her for hours after the incident with the liniment, reading aloud from that dull text, long after her eyes had closed. But leaving her side had only intensified the churning in my gut. The need to do something scratched under my skin like a trapped animal.

  Jacobi was dealing with his own demons. I'd seen him earlier, prowling the corridors of the east wing, his face carved with lines of exhaustion and frustration.

  I remained on the upper floor, wandering aimlessly through the corridors of the west wing.. Perhaps exhaustion would eventually claim me. Something to quiet the voices in my head that whispered I should have been faster, should have known sooner, should have protected her better.

  A flicker of light from under the blue music room door caught my eye.

  I slowed, instinct prickling. Both Jacobi and I had been told this wing was off limits.

  Two voices. One male, low and rumbling. The other, sharper. Female. Lilach.

  I didn't mean to stop. Didn't mean to listen. But then I heard the name:

  "Marcelo."

  The word slid through the half-closed door like a knife under a rib.

  My breath caught. My pulse quickened. I pressed closer to the door, the wood cool against my temple.

  "He was in Arkwell Market," Lilach said, her voice cool and furious. "Not cloaked. Not disguised. He let me see him. Smiled."

  Ross responded quietly. "He wants to provoke us. He’s waving bait, daring us to strike. If we kill him, we risk diplomatic collapse. The humans will cry assassination."

  Lilach's laughter was sharp and bitter. "If he were Naerithi, we'd have flayed him and served his bones with wine."

  My hands clenched. My shoulder pressed to the wall just beside the door. My breath barely stirred.

  "He wants her to come for him," Ross said. "He wants to hurt her again. Or lure one of us out far enough to take another."

  "Then why are we sitting here?"

  A long silence.

  "Because if we move too soon," Ross said at last, "we might lose Ellah."

  I pushed the door open.

  The room fell silent.

  Ross sat near the fire, a curved dagger resting across his lap. The blade caught the firelight, liquid gold tracing its edge. Lilach stood near the window, glass in hand, her golden braid glinting in the firelight. Both turned to stare at me, surprise quickly hardening into wariness.

  "Where?" I asked.

  Ross raised one brow. "You were not invited."

  "I don't care. Where is he?"

  Lilach looked me over, eyes narrowing. " Ross said you'd chase him. Without a plan. Without backup."

  "Try me," I said evenly.

  Ross's gaze lingered. Then he shook his head.

  "You're not going."

  Heat flooded my face. I took a step forward, but Ross stood, the movement smooth and predatory.

  "We're sending Corsa with Taren at dawn to follow the leads. They're trained for this, and they know how to operate in this city. You don't."

  "I can help." My voice came out rougher than intended.

  "You can help by staying with her."

  I opened my mouth to argue, but Lilach stepped closer.

  "She trusts you. She lets you sit with her, when the rest of us barely get a glance. Don't throw that away just because your pride demands blood."

  I went still.

  Ross sat again, resting the blade across his knees. "If Marcelo shows himself again, we'll know. And when it's time, we'll strike. But not before we have Ellah."

  I lowered my gaze. My hands curled into fists at my sides, then slowly relaxed.

  "I want him dead." The words came out soft, almost a whisper, but charged with a darkness I rarely let surface.

  Ross nodded. "So do we. But there's more at stake than vengeance."

  Lilach poured another drink, the amber liquid catching the light as it flowed. "Stay. Keep her grounded. If you want to be useful, be her anchor. Let us be the blades."

  I stood in silence a moment longer, then turned and walked out.

  As the door clicked softly behind me, I heard Lilach speak.

  "He's not one of us."

  "No," Ross replied. "But she didn't choose one of us."

  I paused just beyond the door frame, the words landing sharper than anything they'd said to my face. I wasn't Naerithi. I wasn't trained. But I was hers and they knew it.

  And I wasn't going anywhere.

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  The hallway stretched before me, shadows pooling in its corners. I walked without direction again, my mind racing with what I'd learned. Marcelo was within reach, yet I was expected to wait. To stay. To do nothing.

  I descended the grand staircase, the need for movement still driving me. My feet carried me to the kitchens by habit. The large room lay in darkness except for the banked embers in the cooking hearth. Their glow cast just enough light for me to navigate between the long wooden tables and hanging copper pots.

  I found a kettle and filled it, setting it over the coals and stirring them to life. The simple, familiar motions helped to calm the storm in my blood. I gathered tea leaves and a mug, measuring by feel rather than sight.

  "Can't sleep either?"

  I turned sharply. Clover stood in the doorway, a woolen shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders. Her grey hair hung in a loose braid over one shoulder.

  "No." I gestured to the kettle. "Tea?"

  She nodded, shuffling into the kitchen. "Something soothing, if you have it."

  I found chamomile in a small tin and added it to the pot. We worked in companionable silence, the kettle beginning to sing as it heated.

  "She had a nightmare." Clover settled onto a stool at the counter. "Just now."

  My hand stilled over the mugs. "Joy?"

  Clover nodded. "Terrible screaming. Not words. Just... sound."

  I closed my eyes briefly. "I should have stayed."

  "She wouldn't like you to see her like that." Clover's voice was gentle but certain.

  I poured the boiling water over the tea leaves, watching them curl and darken. "Did she... did she say anything? After?"

  "Asked for water. Thanked me. Locked her door."

  The lock was a recent addition, installed at Joy's request. Ross had complied without question, though I'd seen the pain in his eyes when he ordered it done. Another barrier. Another way for her to keep us at a distance.

  "She'll come around," Clover said. "Just needs time."

  I set a steaming mug before her. "Time." The word tasted bitter. "While Marcelo walks free."

  Clover's eyes sharpened. "You heard."

  "Enough." I took a sip of the too-hot tea, welcoming the burn. "He's in Arkwell Market."

  She nodded, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. "Playing games. He always did."

  I looked at her more closely. "You know him?"

  A shadow crossed her face. Her fingers tightened around the ceramic.

  "I worked in his household. Before Ross found me."

  The revelation surprised me. "You were Marcelo's servant?"

  "Property." Her voice carried no emotion. "Not his, specifically. His father's. But Marcelo was always... interested in the servant girls. And later, when the Levanths began acquiring Naerithi, he developed a particular... fascination."

  Something cold and heavy settled in my stomach. "How did you get away?"

  Clover stared into her tea. "I didn't. Not by myself."

  She touched her throat. I noticed a thin white scar tracing across the skin like a silver thread.

  "I helped one of the Naerithi girls escape. Marcelo didn't take kindly to that." Her fingers traced the scar. "Ross came looking for the girl. Found me instead. Paid a small fortune to the old master, who was happy to sell 'damaged goods' for any price."

  My fingers tightened around the mug. "What I’ve heard... about Marcelo having a history..."

  "Joy wasn't his first time." Clover's voice had gone flat. "Won't be his last, unless someone stops him."

  We sat in silence for several minutes, the weight of her words filling the space between us. The tea grew cold in my hands.

  "I should check on her," I said finally.

  Clover nodded. "She might not let you in. But knowing you tried... it matters."

  I set my mug down and stood. "Thank you. For the company."

  She smiled, the expression weary but genuine. "You're good for her. Even if she doesn't know it yet."

  I left the kitchen with her words echoing in my mind. The house felt different now, less like a sanctuary and more like a prison. Walls that kept us safe, but also kept us contained while monsters roamed free.

  I climbed the stairs back to the upper floor. The walk to Joy's room seemed to take forever. Each step brought me closer to her door, to the lock that might turn me away, to the knowledge that I couldn't erase what had been done to her. I could only be present for what came after.

  When I reached her door, I hesitated. The corridor stretched empty around me, silent and still. No light showed beneath the heavy wood. I raised my hand to knock, then lowered it. If she was finally sleeping peacefully, I wouldn't disturb her.

  Instead, I sank down to sit beside her door, my back against the wall. The polished floor was hard beneath me, but I'd endured worse discomforts. If she cried out again, I would be here. If she needed anything, I would be here. And in the morning, when she emerged, I would still be here.

  My head fell back against the wall. Exhaustion pulled at my limbs like weights tied to each finger, each toe. My eyelids grew heavy despite my best efforts to stay alert. The house settled around me, creaking and sighing like a living thing. Wood contracting in the night chill. Ancient beams shifting under their own weight.

  Somewhere, a clock chimed three times, the sound hollow and deep.

  I thought of what Ross had said. What Lilach had said. Stay. Be her anchor.

  I thought of Marcelo, walking free in Arkwell Market. Smiling. Untouched. I imagined my hands around his throat. Imagined driving a blade through his chest. Imagined him suffering as Joy had suffered.

  The violence of these thoughts should have disturbed me. Instead, they felt like coming home to a part of myself I'd always denied. A darkness that matched Joy's, perhaps.

  For her, I would unleash it.

  But not tonight. Tonight, I would be her guardian. Her anchor. The one who stayed when others left.

  I closed my eyes, just for a moment. Just to rest.

  When I opened them again, pale morning light filtered through the windows at the end of the hall. The world slowly came into focus around me. My neck burned from the awkward position, muscles screaming in protest when I tried to move. My legs had gone numb, heavy and useless beneath me.

  The door beside me stood open.

  Joy looked down at me, silver eyes unblinking. Her expression shifted between surprise and something softer I couldn't name.

  She wore the same clothes as yesterday, the fabric rumpled from sleep. Her white hair hung loose and disheveled around her face. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, but they were clear and present. Focused entirely on me.

  "You stayed."

  Her voice came rough and low, scraped raw from screaming or silence. The words hung in the air between us.

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  Joy held out her hand. The gesture mirrored ones I'd made to her so many times before—an offering, an invitation, a choice.

  "Come inside. You look terrible."

  A laugh escaped me, unexpected and rusty. My throat felt like I'd swallowed sand.

  "I've been told I look my best in the early hours."

  Her mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile but close. The ghost of her former self flickered across her face.

  "Whoever told you that was lying."

  I took her hand and let her pull me to my feet. Her strength had returned, bit by bit. Her palm was cool against mine, but her grip was firm.

  "You had a nightmare," I said, following her into the room.

  She nodded, moving to the window to draw back the curtains. Sunlight spilled across the floor, warming the wood. "Clover helped."

  "She told me."

  Joy turned to face me, studying my expression. "You came to check on me."

  "Yes."

  "And decided to sleep on the floor outside my door instead of knocking?"

  I shrugged, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. "I didn't want to wake you if you'd fallen back asleep."

  She moved to the small table where a pitcher of water stood. Poured a glass and handed it to me. "You're strange, Selwyn Velez."

  I accepted the water, drinking deeply. My throat felt parched after the long night. "So I've been told."

  She sat on the edge of the bed, watching me. For a moment, she looked almost like herself again. Almost like the woman I'd first met in the arena, fierce and untouchable.

  "I heard voices last night," she said suddenly. "From the blue room."

  My hand stilled with the glass halfway to my lips. "Oh?"

  Her gaze sharpened. "Don't play ignorant. You heard them too. I felt you in the hall."

  I set the glass down carefully. "You knew I was there?"

  "I know many things." Her fingers traced patterns on the bedspread, small circles that seemed to mirror her thoughts. "I know Marcelo is in Arkwell Market. I know Ross is sending Corsa and Taren at dawn. I know Ellah is still alive."

  "How long were you listening?"

  "Long enough." She looked up at me, her silver eyes clear and hard. "They think I'm broken. That I need to be protected. That I can't handle knowing where he is."

  I stayed silent, watching her.

  "They're wrong." She stood, moving to the wardrobe. Opened it and pulled out clothes—practical, sturdy things, not the dresses Ross had provided. "I need to be there when they find Ellah. I need to be the one who ends Marcelo."

  Alarm flared in my chest. "Joy—"

  "Don't." She turned to face me, and something in her expression stopped the words in my throat. "Don't tell me to stay here. Don't tell me to heal first. Don't tell me what I can and cannot bear."

  I swallowed hard. "I wasn't going to."

  Surprise flickered across her face.

  "I was going to say," I continued carefully, "that if you're going, I'm going with you."