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Three. And one empty.

Three children Elzhbeta had killed and pried open and pressed into this door like beads into clay. Three sockets filled. One socket empty, freshly cut, the metal still bright at its lips. Waiting.

Mine.

She had known, in the cottage with Elzhbeta, that something dreadful had been planned for her. She hadn't understood how dreadful. She hadn't understood this.

Knowing it now, seeing the socket cut and waiting, was different.

The breath went out of her entirely. Her knees didn't hold this time. Lysander caught her completely, bracing her against his chest, his face turned towards the ring she couldn't stop looking at.

"That one." She lifted her free hand. Her finger shook. "That one is mine."

"Idonea, look at me."

She didn't look at him.

Balmo, beside them, made a soft chittering sound that was the laugh of a creature recognising something it'd heard described in legend but never expected to see. "Mouth door," it said, in a reverent voice. "Mouth door. Long work. Long work."

Lance hissed from her shoulder. His wings brushed against her neck. He didn't lift from her shoulder, he stayed.

Idonea closed her eyes. She held them closed for a count that Lysander didn't interrupt.

When she opened them, she was steadier.

"We have to keep going."

"Are you—"

"No. Don't ask me yet. After."

Lysander pressed his forehead briefly to hers. He didn't speak. He let her go without letting go; his arm slid down to her waist, anchoring her without holding her in place.

She turned to the door, pressing her palm to the last ring. The grooves flared faintly red at her touch, warmth bleeding outward like a pulse beneath skin. The third ring warmed.

Images crowded her mind; fractured, half-remembered, sharp as broken glass. The ring turned, not smoothly, but as if it were aligning itself to her rather than the other way around.

The Resonant glyphs had aligned to her because she'd worked them. The Riven marks had aligned to her because she'd bled. The third ring was aligning to her because she was the one it had been built to align to.

The thought arrived in her like a hand laid against the back of her neck. It didn't belong to her. It came from somewhere underneath the door, the same place the breath of warmth was coming from, the same place she'd been feeling her mother since the relic page first split open in her mind.

Her breath stuttered.

The Current surged, threatening to spill, and Lysander leaned in, bracing her, containing the tremor through sheer force of presence. The strain rippled through him as well—jaw clenched, shoulders rigid—as he held her steady without understanding the thing that moved through her.

The final lock clicked. The chamber fell abruptly, unnaturally silent.

Balmo let out a delighted cackle, tail flicking. Lance hissed, but remained close, as if sensing the shift in energy.

The rings stilled. The heat withdrew. The door rumbled, then parted just enough to allow her through, the air beyond shimmering with restrained power.

Idonea swayed, suddenly hollow.

Lysander’s hands lingered at her arms, reluctant. “Idonea—”

She shook her head, already stepping forward.

“This part is mine.”