Another chirp-whistle. It moves to the door, waiting.
I could stay here. Sit on this cold floor until morning, whenever morning is in this place with three moons and no sun. Wait for Scratch to collect me like lost luggage. See if the Vethani remembers what he bought.
But the little creature is warm, and I'm so cold. And I've already decided I'll either find what I need here or die trying.
I stand. My legs protest, half-asleep from the cold stone. The salamander waits patiently while I steady myself.
“Fine. But if you're leading me to my death, at least make it interesting.”
The door opens silently. The hallway beyond is empty, lit by that same sourceless light. The salamander moves with purpose, and I follow.
Shadow servants materialize as we walk. Scratch's warnings about not touching things hadn't prepared me for this—wisps of darkness with suggestions of hands, faces. They flutter anxiously around me, trying to herd me back toward the room.
“I'm already breaking the rules,” I tell them. “Might as well break them all.”
They don't like that. One tries to grab my sleeve, but its fingers pass through fabric half the time. They're terrible at touching, I realize. They can apply pressure but can't quite grasp. Another blocks my path, but I walk through it. Cold pressure passes through my lungs, then nothing.
The salamander leads me through passages that shouldn't exist. Stairs that go up but feel like down. Doorways that open onto rooms that can't be where they are. My inner ear gives up trying to make sense of it.
Something hangs from a ceiling beam ahead. Bat-like but wrong—too many joints in its wings, translucent skin showing dark veins. It drops to eye level, tilting what might be its head.
It makes a sound: my heartbeat, echoed back in miniature.
“That's disturbing.”
It makes another sound: my breathing, but smaller, lighter.
The bat-thing circles us once, then flies ahead. Leading now, along with the salamander. I follow my strange guides through impossible architecture. Past paintings whose eyes don't quite follow. Through rooms where furniture floats at wrong angles. The shadow servants trail behind, radiating disapproval.
The smell hits me suddenly—bread. Real bread. My stomach clenches with hunger I'd forgotten in my self-pity.
“Food?” I move faster, following the scent.
We pass through what might be a servants' hall. More shadows here, all stopping to stare. A door at the end is cracked open, warmth and bread-scent pouring out.
But there's another door first. Smaller. A supply closet maybe, door slightly ajar. I push it open, looking for a quicker route.
Metal gleams inside. Not supplies—weapons. Swords that hurt to look at, their edges somehow sharper thanphysics should allow. Spears that whisper. And on a low shelf, a blade the length of my forearm, displayed on black velvet.
It's beautiful. The metal is dark as night but reflects light that isn't there. The edge looks sharp enough to cut thoughts.
I reach for it without thinking.
The shadow servants converge, their forms becoming strangely solid in their panic, pulling at my dress, my arms. The bat-thing shrieks—my breathing, but backward and wrong. Even the salamander dims, pulsing faster.
“I'm just looking?—”
My fingers brush the handle.
Pain explodes through my palm. Not a cut—a burn? A freeze? Both? The blade clatters to the floor as I jerk back, cradling my hand to my chest. The skin is split in a perfect line across my palm, too clean to be natural. Blood wells immediately, more than seems possible from one cut.
“Fuck.” Blood runs down my wrist, hot and shocking. “Fuck, fuck?—”
The servants scatter. The bat-thing goes silent. The salamander flares brilliant gold, then dims to almost nothing.
They're afraid. Not of my blood. Of what's coming.
I feel him before I see him. Temperature drops further, impossible as that seems. The air gets thick with presence.
