Untethered. Not a comforting word.
We press ourselves into the shadow of a carved stone pillar as a pair of guards wander past the corridor ahead. Wander. Not march. Not patrol. Just… wandering. Did they all drink spiked berry wine for breakfast? It wasn’t me. I swear. I was elsewhere. Right?
“Those are Hallowed guards,” Nash whispers. “But they seem off.”
One of them stops mid-step and waves his hand in the air, red sparkles kissing his fingertips. I’d love to claim that this wasn’t my doing, but we know better. “I’m not sure I like this,” he says to the other.
The second tilts his head. “Like what?”
“Existing without a purpose. Guarding without a charge.”
The second considers this. “I think I preferred stabbing, but I no longer have the urge to thrust my sword.”
Despite past events, I’m not a fan of stabbing.
“It’s disconcerting,” the first agrees. “But I believe we will sleep soundly in our beds.” They both nod and continue wandering.
I blink. “Well,” I whisper, “I may have accidentally improved morale.”
Hart leans in close behind me. “Those same guards would aid our decapitation in a heartbeat if the Idols willed it.”
“And now they’re exploring emotional growth,” I say. “This is what we call character development.”
Nash drags a hand down his face. “This is what we call a problem.”
Theo’s hand rests low on my back, grounding, warm, like he’s making sure I don’t float away.
“Do you still feel it?” he murmurs.
“Yes.” The jitter is still there. Not as wild or as sharp as before, but present. Like a second heartbeat, or something pacing just beneath my skin, waiting for me to do something reckless.
Which, to be fair, is its natural habitat.
“I feel it too,” Theo says. Because whatever happened has tied us more tightly together than ever before.
We move again, deeper into the castle. The twisty corridors are like my personal nemesis—anything that requires directional intelligence is an issue. But doors keep appearing and disappearing on the walls, as if the realm is adjusting to the new order.
The knights see it but don’t comment. I get it; we need to get to safety before we address the extra weirdness.
We pass a flamingo. It pauses to stare at me, then slowly backs away like I am the threat.
“Rude,” I mutter.
It hisses, turns, and struts off with what I can only describe as judgment.
“I liked it better when they were weapons,” Nash says.
“I liked it better when they didn’t have opinions,” Hart adds.
We reach the final corridor, the one leading to the library. The air changes, growing heavier and quieter, as if the castle is holding its breath.
The library doors at the end of the corridor are enormous. Carved with scenes that shift when you look too closely—heroes rising, villains falling, lovers breaking, kingdoms burning and rebuilding and burning again. Stories. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Watching. Waiting.
“Did they always do that?” I ask.
“Nope,” Hart grumbles. “It appears to be an upgrade.”
The doors part with neither a groan nor a creak. A soft, knowing opening. Like we’re expected.
