“That’s horrifyingly specific.”
“Yes.”
“Useful, though.”
“Yes.”
She nods once, absorbing terror by turning it into tasks. “Then we burn bloody cloths, sweep hair into the stove, salt the windows, and change my pulse pattern.”
“How do you intend to change your pulse pattern?”
She picks up the pestle again. “You tell me. You’re the one listening to it all day.”
From outside, hammering begins.
Corin has found iron and purpose.
Strike after strike rings out from the shed, faster than human rhythm should allow. The sound carries through the walls, raw and bright, accompanied by the scrape of metal, the hiss of water, and occasional muttered profanity. His endurance holds. His aura flares with each exertion, growing more disciplined under stress rather than less.
Sable listens too.
“That’s too fast,” she says softly.
“Yes.”
“He doesn’t get tired.”
“He will eventually.”
“But not like before.”
“No.”
Her jaw tightens, but she does not stop working. “Then we use it.”
By midnight, the kitchen smells of salt, iron, bitter resin, and candle wax. Rows of small stoppered vials line the table, each one filled with a dark mixture designed to burn infernal matter on contact. Corin enters with a bundle of rough iron stakes under one arm, sweat streaking soot along his temple, his eyes too bright but his stance steady.
“Perimeter traps,” he says, dropping them with a clatter.
Sable looks at the uneven points. “These are ugly.”
“They’re traps, not tableware.”
“They’ll work,” I say.
Corin grins. “See? The terrifying statue appreciates function.”
“I appreciate survival.”
“Same family.”
Sable pushes a tray of vials toward him. “Do not break these unless something with teeth crosses the wardline.”
“What if something with teeth gives a speech first?”
“Then break two.”
He looks at me. “I like her plan.”
