“Move,” Dreven orders, all ice and command, and I do because he’s right and because the yawning dark below us is starting to whisper sweet nothings about surrender.
The open door calls me like a migraine. Beyond it, the air feels older. The tug in my gut goes from polite to feral.
“No!” I shout and try to turn, but Dreven’s grip is solid. “It’s moved.”
“What?” Dastian asks, bending reality around us in a wave of chaos that makes my stomach lurch.
“The crown. It was there, and now it’s not. It moved. It doesn’t want to be found.”
“Are you sure?” Dreven snaps as a thousand tiny birds that look like they’re made out of paper come flying at us, shredding skin. Even theirs. They slice like razors. Tiny cuts light my skin like constellations. I raise my forearm to protect my face and slash blindly. Paper screams. Ink sprays. It smells like old books and salt.
“Stop hitting them,” I bark, spitting a feather of pulp off my tongue. “They’re memories on paper. They’ll keep tearing.”
“Not if they’re ash,” Dastian replies, and the air around us flashes red-gold.
“Wait—”
Too late. Red lightning races out. The birds ignite in a chain, flaring, dying, flaring again as the realm snatches the heat and turns it cold mid-spark. They keep coming, embers remade into new paper wings. Voren lifts his hand. The temperature drops. Snow blossoms from nowhere, heavy, wet, and sudden. The birds hit it, sodden and stupid, dropping like drunk confetti.
“Better,” I gasp, wiping blood from my cheek. “Thank you.”
“Always,” he murmurs.
The pull in my gut jerks left. Then right. Then stops. It feels like a heartbeat the wrong way round. I freeze, breath caught halfway to panic.
“Don’t chase it,” I say. My voice sounds thin and far. “It’s moving because we are.”
Dreven’s hand tightens on my arm. “Explain.”
“It’s testing me,” I answer, and I know it, bone-deep. “It’s feeding on pursuit. It senses movement and reacts.”
“So how the fuck do we find it if we have to stay still?” Dastian asks.
“Wedon’t. I do.”
Three divine glares land on me. I ignore them.
“Don’t follow. Don’t flinch. Don’t even sneeze,” I tell them, and the look on Dastian’s face says he’s absolutely going to sneeze just to be contrary. “I mean it. It’s reacting to motion. If you move, it moves. If I move wrong, it bolts.”
Dreven’s fingers flex on my arm. “Define ‘wrong’.”
“Anything that isn’t perfect,” I mutter. “So shut up.”
I ease out of his hold. The pull in my gut throbs once, like it’s listening. Fine. Listen to this, then. I plant my feet and close my eyes. Inhale. Exhale. I let my grip on the blade loosen a fraction. Let the noise of the realm slide past. Paper wings. Distant whispers. Dastian’s crackle. Voren’s frost.Dreven’s shadows pressing on my skin like a storm about to break.
My slayer training kicks in. Stealth. Stillness. Strength.
The pull eases. Then settles. It isn’t left or right anymore. It’s not ahead. It’s gone.
“Fuck,” I breathe out.
“What?” Dastian whispers. It’s like his go-to word of the day.
“It’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Gone where?” Dreven asks. “Moved again?”
