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The footsteps continue. Matching our pace. Never closer. Never farther. Always there. Watching. Waiting. Cassian's voice drops almost to nothing.

"Those aren't ours."

The darkness around us somehow feels deeper. The bracelets remain silent. We continue walking. And whatever is behind us continues walking too. The footsteps never change. They do not rush. They do not stumble. They simply remain behind us, matching our rhythm with impossible precision. Step. Step. Step. The sound should be reassuring. Proof that someone is there. Instead, it feels carefully measured. Deliberate. Like something making certain we know it is following.

Nyra's voice is almost inaudible. "The bracelet still says not to turn around."

Rowan mutters under her breath. "I wasn't going to."

I smile. "You absolutely were."

Silence. "Maybe a little."

The footsteps continue. Cassian walks in silence. I cannot see him, but I know from the subtle changes in his breathing that he is listening—not with his ears alone. His inheritance has become the only sense that still seems to function.

Several minutes pass before Nyra speaks again. "The bracelet has another instruction." We all wait. "Walk."

Rowan snorts. "Helpful."

"That's the entire instruction." Nyra adds. "Excellent."

"Rowan."

"What?"

"If sarcasm solves this, I'll apologize."

I snort.

"It won't." Rowan says.

"I know."

We move. The footsteps move too. At first, I focus on them. Then I realize something stranger. They never become louder. Or quieter. No matter how quickly we walk. No matter how slowly. The distance between us remains exactly the same.

"Do you hear that?" I whisper.

Cassian answers immediately. "The spacing."

"You noticed." I answer.

"I've been counting."

"So have I."

Rowan sighs. "Why is everyone counting things except me?"

"Because you're complaining." Nyra answers.

"It requires concentration."

Despite everything, Nyra laughs. It is brief. Nervous. But real. The darkness somehow becomes less oppressive because of it. The bracelet pulses again. Nyra inhales sharply.

"We're approaching another test." She says.

"Does it tell you what?" I ask.

"No." A pause. "It says...Only truth may pass." Silence. The footsteps behind us stop. Every hair along my arms rises. The sudden absence feels worse than the sound. Then— A door opens. Not physically. Magically. The air changes. Warmer. Still blind, I sense space widening around us.