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The world narrowed to a single throb. A second pulse answered, her own blood calling back.

She tried something new: weaving the Resonant attunement she’d practised earlier with the raw, scorching pull of the Riven cut. Her heartbeat synced, then stuttered, then stretched thin, current rippling beneath her skin.

Her eyes slid open into a silvery shroud of Current Sight. Light poured in steady waves across the terrace stones, luminously fluid. White strands drifted through the silver, and within them, faded hairline streaks of black.

Idonea drew harder. The Current thickened, pushing back against her palm with molten heat, as if resenting being bent. She fanned it outward, combing through every thread, searching for the oily distortion of daemon presence.

Nothing. Not even a tremor.

She hissed under her breath and severed the connection, the recoil snapping against her ribs. Her knees wobbled. The cut on her neck burned hotter.

At the second terrace, she repeated the ritual. Again at the third. Each attempt dragged heavier through her limbs, thickening her blood with heat and fatigue. Her nose prickled, the familiar warning before it bled, and her vision pulsed at the edges.

Lance emitted a low hiss and flew down from the rooftops. He circled Idonea twice.

“Yes?”

He nudged his head against her hand with Nellith’s ring.

Idonea lifted her hand to look at it.

“Is there something special about it?” Lysander asked.

“He’s connected to it,” she said, “somehow.”

Lance continued to nudge at her hand. He’d bruise her soon enough if he persisted.

“Pest,” she muttered. But she couldn’t ignore him.

She slipped the ring off her finger and rested it in her open palm.

Lance hissed sharply before snatching it up in his jaw. He circled Idonea again before shooting up into the sky.

Idonea started after him, sucking in a deep breath. “Maybe he’ll find Nellith.”

“Or…” Lysander trailed off.

She shook her head. “No!”

Lysander reached for her, but she tore away from his hand, shoving past him and running. Any direction, just away. Away from the terraces. Away from Lance’s empty sky.

She ran until the neatly cut stone paths gave way to uneven woods. Snow-laden branches whipped at her coat. Frost-crusted hares bolted from their burrows as she crashed past, breath breaking in sharp bursts. The cold bit at her lungs, but she didn’t stop.

Her thoughts clawed her, jagged, frantic, spiralling.

The Current still simmered beneath her skin. It made every thought harsher. Every fear louder. Every shadow deeper.

Her body gave out.

Idonea stumbled, then fell to her knees, snow exploding around her in a powdery halo. The cold soaked through, but it was barely anything over the pulsing fire in her blood. She threw her head back and cried out. No tears came. Her eyes burned dry.

She screamed instead until her throat was raw and the world swam around the edges.

When her voice failed her, silence pressed in. Her breath hitched, each inhale shuddering. Her fingers curled in the snow.

The cold soaked up through her clothes and into her thighs and she didn't feel it the way she should have. There was only the slow flat absence the screaming had left in her chest.

Her mind, too tired to spiral, slipped somewhere else.