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Nat was already in the library, wandering the archive like a professor after hours. He’d pick up a book, frown at it, then add it to the wobbling tower in his arms. He glanced up as I drifted in, his expression tightening.

“You look thin,” he said.

“Feels worse from this side,” I shot back, following him down the spiral stairs.

His gaze was clinical, cutting. “Maybe put the journal back. The pocket realm you’re keeping it in is burning energy you don’t have.”

A visceral no clawed up my throat. That journal was as much a part of me as Angel was. I didn’t let it go. Ever.

Instead, I deflected. “Explain again how you get to be solid on both sides of the Veil. Is there a form I missed? ‘Application for Corporeal Privileges’?”

Nat sighed.

“You’re dead. I’m dead. We’re both dead. We could form the ultimate death metal band.” I gestured between us. “But you get to be physical whenever you feel like it. How’s that fair?”

“All Reapers and Shepherds have died,” Nat explained, patient as always. “Our remains are secured, usually reduced to ashes, to serve as a fulcrum between realms. It’s why those who see me in the mortal realm only ever see my death form. You, however, are dead but not yet ashes. If you lose all resonance before we secure your remains, you’ll never establish that anchor. You’ll just fade. Become a shade.” He hesitated, then added, “If there’s anything left to linger at all.”

“That’ll put a real damper on my love life.”

Nat shook his head. “The Marshal is corporeal on both sides. It’s necessary to repair the weave.”

“Right, because he’s a god. Or something.”

“Or something,” Nat agreed. “Higher.”

“Higher than a god?” I snorted.

“What is a god? Someone mostly immortal? Someone worshiped by mortals?”

“Someone all-powerful,” I said.

“Then why would a god need you?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. He had a point.

“God is simply a title,” Nat continued. “Like king or knight or pope. The Marshal is a title and a presence. Most gods don’t have the ability to manipulate the weave.” He paused. “Do you think you are more powerful than most gods?”

“Uh, no?” Why did that come out like a question? Would I stand toe to toe with Xavier? Not by choice. And he was only a demigod. “I’m just lucky enough to have an ability the Marshal needs.”

Nat nodded. “All Reapers have a minute ability to touch and manipulate the weave. Most little more than what I’ve already shown you.” His voice dropped. “Every Weaver the Marshal has taken on has either died, betrayed him, or burned out.”

Well, that didn’t sound ominous at all.

“Meanwhile, you’re fading before barely beginning. Put the journal back.”

“If my tiny pocket realm is draining my energy, how strong does that make Erlik? He’s holding an entire larder full of souls.”

“Crazy powerful,” Nat said. “Dangerously powerful.”

I looked down at my hands. Translucent. But beneath the surface, the silver threads of the weave still shimmered—faint, but there. I could still feel Angel’s ring, a cold anchor in a formless sea. I could still feel the pull of my own body, a desperate hum from somewhere dark and far away.

If I were stronger, could I trace it? I’d already read the journal back to front. Scoured every spell, every weave, every margin note for a clue on how to follow the thread back to what was left of me.

Nothing.

I let out a long, unnecessary breath and marched to the warded chamber where the sentient journals were kept. The air hummed with restrained magic.

I stood there for a long moment, holding the journal, unable to lay it back on the pedestal. Letting go felt like surrendering a piece of my own soul.