And gods, itdoessomething to me—seeing her like that. Like maybe the wounds are knitting, even if just at the edges. Like maybe the girl who shook in her sleep is letting herself rest.
Behind me, Thane's controlled composure is cracking. His silver eyes dart from wall to wall, cataloging changes that don't make sense.
"This wasn't here last week," he whispers, voice rough with disbelief.
Stellan moves beside him with that predatory grace of his, but he's quieter than usual. Almost reverent. "She's not restoring it," he murmurs. "She's rewriting it."
The corridor opens into a circular atrium, and I have to stop walking. Because this—this is the heart of what I've been seeing in fragments. The curved walls, the way light pools in the center, the sense of something sacred and protected.
Bree pauses too, tilting her head like she's listening to something none of us can hear. The Ether rises higher around her legs, expectant.
That's when I see it.
A door that wasn't there before—tall and elegant, carved from pale wood that gleams like pearl. It stands opposite where we entered, and aswe watch, silver lines trace across its surface in patterns that make my eyes water if I look too long.
"This is it," I breathe, not meaning to speak aloud.
Jace glances at me. "This is what?"
But I can't answer. Because the door is opening.
Not with a creak or groan. It swings inward, smooth as silk, revealing darkness beyond that somehow doesn't feel empty. Expectant darkness. Welcoming darkness.
Bree approaches slowly, the Ether pooling at her feet like it's gathering courage. When she reaches the threshold, she stops and looks back at us.
"You should see this," she says softly.
It's permission and invitation all at once.
I step forward first, drawn by the same instinct that's been guiding me since the visions started. The others follow, our footsteps muffled by something softer than stone.
And then we're inside.
This is what a dream feels like the moment before you wake—too perfect to exist, but undeniably real. The chamber spreads out in a perfect circle, vast enough that the far walls blur into gentle shadow. The ceiling arches high above us, smooth stone that holds its own warm light.
But it's not the size that steals my breath.
It's the bed.
It rises from the center of the room like an altar to comfort—low and wide and round, draped in fabrics that catch the light and hold it. Velvet in deep blues and silvers, linen that looks impossibly soft, pillows arranged with the kind of care that speaks of devotion. It's not furniture. It's an invitation.
Stellan steps deeper into the room, his voice low and musing. "It's not just responding to her. It's building itself around her." He pauses, gray eyes sweeping the space with something between awe and unease. "Whatever she wants—even if she doesn't know it yet."
The words land heavy in the charged air.
Bree stiffens beside me. Her eyes flick between the glowing walls, the abundance of pillows, the sheer size of the bed. "That's not—" she starts, but doesn't finish. Because we're all staring. And the bed is enormous.
Her shoulders curl inward like she wants to disappear into the floor.
"Holy shit," Jace breathes into the loaded silence. Then, louder: "Is this... is this a group bed situation? Because I'm going to need a seating chart."
Wes lets out a dry laugh. "Forget seating. We're gonna need a choreography guide."
"This is worse than the pancakes," Jace says to Bree, mock-serious but not unkind.
Bree's face flames red. "Can you all please stop talking?"
But Stellan isn't done. The smirk fades. Just a flicker. But it's the first crack in his mask I've ever seen. His voice carries something between appreciation and something darker. "Some houses are built for order. This one..." His gaze lingers on the bed, on the way the Ether pools around Bree's feet like it's claiming her. "Was clearly built for pleasure."
