Veyrion strode forward with a torch. The music dimmed. Voices fell to a hush.
He lowered the flame to the waiting log. When it caught, the fire roared up in a pillar of gold and smoke.
The crowd erupted—cheers, laughter, tankards pounding against tables. I watched the flame. Sparks leapt like stars across smoke-dark beams, and for an instant I felt the strange pull of it—as though I could see every hearth it would touch, every family gathered, every shadow pushed back by the same fire.
Men and women pressed forward, each carrying a carved piece of wood or bone etched with runes. One by one, they placed their tokens into the fire, faces solemn, lips moving in vows or prayers. The flames consumed it all—wood, resin, memory—until the smoke rose in a column that seemed to reach for the sky itself.
Beside me, Eira leaned close, her voice softer than usual. “This is Mother’s Night. Doors stay open all night. The hall fills with ghosts,” she murmured. “But do not fear, they are the ones who keep watch.”
I nodded, throat tight. “Verjah?”
Eira smiled. “Yes. Verjah.”
The fire roared, swallowing another name. Another memory. Another vow.
Sleep didn’t come gently. It dragged me under.
I dreamed the world had gone still—no tide, no wind, no warmth. The sea pressed in around me, black and endless, yet I lay flat and unmoving, pinned to the floor. Above, the sky cracked open, stars spilling through the fracture like broken glass—violet and silver, too bright, too close.
Cold filled my lungs.
Light split beneath my skin, constellations threading through me where veins should have been. The crescent mark on my brow flared—burning so hot it felt carved into bone. I screamed, but the sound echoed back wrong, layered and distant, something else screamed through me.
You do not belong.
The stars shifted, aligning into shapes that watched. Judged.
The sea tore open beneath me and a ship rose from the dark, its hull scorched, its sails stitched with bone and iron. Green fire licked the mast, hissing.
At the helm stood a figure crowned in rusted iron—faceless and vast—its hand lifted not in warning, but command.
Stay.
I fell instead.
Through frost that burned. Through light that cut.
Three shards of pale crystal tore past me, dragging at my blood—wrenching something loose inside my chest as they went. I reached for them and felt myself split—hollowed—unfinished.
I woke with a gasp, tangled in furs, Skeldrhall’s carved beams looming above me. Firelight flickered across the walls, steady and real—and still my skin ached. It felt like something inside me had been broken apart and stitched back together wrong.
I pressed a palm to my racing heart and stared into the dark until the air stopped feeling like it might crush me.
Then I slid from bed, wrapped myself in a heavy shawl, and padded into the hall. Stone bit my bare feet. The corridors were dim, lit only by the low glow of banked hearths and pale moonlight spilling through narrow windows.
Every shadow felt too sharp. Every sound lingered too long.
The kitchen was warm.
Warm with fire—and bread.
The scent hit me first: toasted grain, honey, spice. Something rich and sweet.
Veyrion stood near the hearth, sleeves rolled, dusted faintly with flour. He turned a tray of honeyed loaves near the coals—dense rounds scored with runes pressed deep into the crust.
“Neri?”
I startled, nearly spilling water as I poured it. The clay cup clicked against the table. I drank too fast, then forced myself to slow, letting the warmth of the room settle the tremor in my hands.
