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His face softens for a split second, then the cynicism snaps back into place. “That depends.”

“On what?” I ask.

“The Opal King.” Violet light catches in his pupils and reflects it back. “The court devours itself with hunger and rage, but is it magic without a vessel, or the king’s grief at being abandoned? Waking him might only hasten the ruin.”

I open my mouth to ask for more, but the stone beneath us shifts, not with the background movement we’ve grown accustomed to, but with purpose. The fire flickers as a long, slow exhale moves through the darkness.

My blade is in my hand before I can think, the runes flaring blue in the firelight. I rise to a crouch, scanning the shadows that surround our little island of light.

The breathing comes again, closer now, and with it the scrape of stone on stone, as if some massive creature is unfolding itself outside our ring of light.

“Give me a knife,” Kelaros hisses, springing to his feet.

I shift my stance, keeping both him and the darkness in view. “Not a chance.”

“Don’t be stupid.” His focus shifts to the blackness behind me. “You can’t cover both sides at once.”

“I’ve managed so far.”

The ruins exhale again, and this time, the sound carries a note that might be words in a language too old to remember itself. The fire flares brighter, throwing our shadows long and monstrous against the walls.

Kelaros holds out a hand toward me. “Two fighters are better than one.”

Before I can answer, the floor bucks beneath us. The fire scatters, violet flames racing across the stone and dying all at once. Darkness crashes down, complete and absolute.

Kelaros grabs my arm in an iron grip. “Don’t move.”

I freeze, knife ready, straining to see anything at all. The sithean stone pulses hot, its silver light cutting a tiny hole in the dark. In that glow, Kelaros’s face shows nothing but raw fear, and worse, recognition.

“What aren’t you telling me?” I hiss.

His fingers clamp down. “Now is not the time.”

The stone shifts again, and a new sound rises, not breath this time, but singing. A melody with no words, notes that twist and warp in ways no human throat could manage. It vibrates through the floor, up my legs, into my chest, and resonates in my bones.

I clutch at my chest. “What’s happening?”

He stares at me. “It’s calling to you.”

The singing grows, demanding an answer, and my magic rises, reaching out to merge with the source.

“No,” I snarl, forcing it back.

Whatever the court wants, it’s not getting it from me.

The surrounding darkness thins as a sickly glow runs through the walls. They pulse with the song, a network of light stretching everywhere, all pointing toward the dais where a king once stood.

“We need to leave,” I say, stepping back. “Now.”

Kelaros’s stare turns calculating as he doesn’t move. “It won’t let you leave until you give it what it wants.”

My stomach knots. “And what’s that?”

“A heart.” All mockery falls away, leaving only terrible clarity. “A royal heart to anchor its broken body.”

“I’m no princess waiting to bloom,” I snap.

“You’re no wildling, either, Traveler with No Name,” Kelaros murmurs. “Only time will tell what you really are.”