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His presence—usually a wall, a warning, a weapon—has hollowed out.

And for the first time since I’ve known him, Malek looks…frightened.

The realization lands low in my stomach, heavy enough to bruise.

I swallow hard. “Malek.” His name slips out, barely louder than a breath, but his grip on my coat only tightens, dragging the fabric hard against my skin as if he needs something to hold onto, something to keep him tethered.

“What’s over there?” I whisper now, the words threading out of me on instinct. But he doesn’t react. Not to me. Not to my voice. Not even to Shadow shifting, whining once under his breath.

He doesn’t answer. His hand just curls harder into the coat, knuckles blanching. And then—God—his fist trembles. Slightly. Barely. But I feel it through the fabric, a small, rattling tremor that shivers straight through me.

His eyes aren’t tracking the trees anymore. They’re staring through them—through the world—into some place I can’t follow. His shoulders twitch the way people twitch when old ghosts brush a hand against their spine.

He’s slipped somewhere else entirely, dragged under by something I can’t see.

“Malek,” I try again, steadier this time, forcing the fear clawing at my throat down where he won’t hear it.

He still doesn’t come back.

So I do the only thing I can think to do—the one thing I’ve never done in a moment like this.

I close my fist around his sleeve where his hand is shaking, anchoring fabric instead of skin.

Not yanking. Not forcing.

Just anchoring.

His entire body jolts—not from fear, but from contact. Like he didn’t expect anyone to reach for him when he’s like this. Like the idea of someone pulling him back is so foreign it shocks through his system.

Malek’s hand jerks like I’ve yanked him out of a vision he didn’t want to return from—a place he was trapped in, or clinging to, or both. His eyes flicker wildly, unfocused, pupils blown and searching as if he can’t quite decide what century he’s standing in. Then he forces a breath out between clenched teeth, the sound sharp enough to slice straight through the frozen air.

“We need to move.” His voice isn’t command now. It’s something rougher. Something stripped to the bone.

He drags me forward into the trees, his grip hot and unsteady. Shadow slinks ahead, but not like the fearless creature who barrels through brush like he owns every inch of earth he touches. His belly nearly grazes the ground. His ears flatten. Every step is a question, a flinch, as if the soil itself might reach up and swallow him.

Shadow—who has outrun monsters twice his size.

Shadow—who doesn’t fear anything.

Something in these woods is wrong enough to break him.

The cold deepens the farther we push—and it’s not winter.

It’s sanctuary cold.

Chapel cold.

The kind that settles on your skin with the quiet weight of a sermon you didn’t ask to hear. The kind that sinks into your ribs like a memory of kneeling too long on splintered pews. The kind that tastes like dust and old prayers that should’ve died decades ago but didn’t.

“Malek.” It’s a plea I don’t try to hide.

He flicks his hand once without even looking at me.

Silence.

Shadow freezes so abruptly his legs shake beneath him. His nails scrape dirt as he fights not to collapse into the earth. He trembles—full-body, uncontrollable. A trapped animal’s tremor. His tail tucks so hard it almost disappears under him, and he releases a low whine, thin and desperate.

Malek stops too.