Stone bled cold through the glamoured sleeves they had dressed her in. The fabric rasped at her wrists, as if it missed the shape of shackles. Above, lantern smoke ribboned along the ceiling—iron-sweet, clean enough to feel deliberate. The Briar Court did restraint like craftwork. Nothing obvious. Nothing she could point to and say, Prison. Still, every turn came with company. Rowan Thibodaux kept pace at her left, hands open, smile in place. Two courtiers flanked the other side, silent and oddly hard to look at. Sofia’s eyes tried to catch their faces and slid off, like focus refused to stick. Their footfalls landed in perfect time, practiced until it sounded like fate. The treaty addendum—folded, ash-smeared, wrong in her palm—burned beneath her cuff. Each ward they passed made the bargain-mark under her skin flare in reply. A private chime. A warning bell. “Routine,” Rowan murmured, the Southern lilt softened down to something you could almost mistake for reassurance. “We are just… being helpful.” “Helpful.” Sofia pitched the word loud enough for the corridor to hear it. Rowan’s smile did not move. Their eyes did: quick to her cuff, quick to her mouth. Careful. Ahead waited a seam-door, smooth as poured stone. Last time it had opened for her. Tonight it refused—flat, stubborn, like it had learned her hand. One of the faceless courtiers lifted an arm. Not a block. Not a shove. Just a presence placed in her path, sleeve shimmering with a thread-fine ward. A line across a road that still looked pretty. Sofia drew air through her nose. Counted. EMT brain. Steady hands. Useful hands. “Let me guess,” she asked, letting the irritation scuff the edges. “I am not cleared.” Rowan’s teeth flashed. “Darling, you are cleared to breathe and to sleep. That is generous around here.” The corridor angled left. Sofia knew that angle. Her stomach tightened the way it used to at the entrance to her old station—an instinctive map built from repetition and threat. Left meant away from the outer galleries. Away from the Wall. Fine. They wanted reroute? She stopped dead. Mist beaded on the stone under her boots. Everyone halted with her, the silence snapping taut. No one grabbed her. Not yet. Force was their last language; first came the suggestion she had chosen obedience. Rowan’s shoulder brushed hers, light as a warning hand. “Sofi. We keep moving. We are doing a… thing.” “Sure,” Sofia replied. “I am doing a thing, too.” She turned her head just enough to address the nearest courtier. “If there is a restricted wing, it should be marked. People get hurt in unmarked hazards.” Rowan’s breath caught—half laugh, half plea. They knew exactly what she was doing. So did the courtier, who only tilted their head. No answer. Only a small step forward, body angled between Sofia and the seam-door’s straight line. Sofia let her gaze drift past them like she had lost interest. She pointed down the corridor they were not taking. “I am not asking for a tour. I am asking what to do if someone collapses near it. You have… zones. Bad drafts. Pressure changes. Whatever you call them.” Silence held. The court never handed over information clean; it made you pay with something you could not grow back. Rowan slid into the gap, voice bright and casual, like striking a match in wind. “She is not wrong. Folks drop all the time when the cold bites. Nobody wants blood on the King’s floors.” “Exactly.” Sofia clicked into her flattest professional tone. “Protocol. That is all.” For one breath, something shifted. The courtiers exchanged a glance so fast Sofia almost missed it. Then one lifted a hand, palm angled toward the seam-door, and stone rippled. The door opened. Not wide. Just enough. A narrow passage waited beyond, darker, colder. Air spilled out like winter with a blade. Rowan’s mouth softened, surprise punching through the practiced expression. Sofia’s pulse jumped anyway. False victory. Sweet as sugar. Still sugar. They stepped through. Stone pressed close on both sides, mist slicking the walls as if the court perspired when it lied. Lantern light crawled along the floor in uneven bands. The courtiers followed too near—close enough Sofia could count breaths, hear cloth whisper against itself. Rowan dropped half a step behind her. Demoted by her question. “Do not,” Rowan breathed. “Do not push too hard. They will make a lesson of it.” Sofia’s jaw locked until her teeth ached. “They already have.” Yesterday’s memory tried to crawl up—bound captive, ropes tightening the moment her attention landed. The court’s training: look away and save yourself, or look and make it worse. Either way, blood. She shoved the image down. Not because it did not matter. Because the Wall fed on attention, and she could not afford to hand it anything by accident. The draft sharpened, slicing under her sleeves. Her wrists prickled where glamour kissed skin, polite restraint turning velvet leash. Rowan leaned in, sugar and warning. “You have that paper still?” “Yes.” “Do not think about it.” A snort slipped out of Sofia before she could stop it. “That is hilarious advice.” Rowan’s eyes turned hard. “I mean it.” So control had tightened since their archive run. Someone had searched her rooms. Counted her steps. If they could have counted her thoughts, they would have. Rowan looked like they had slept in their clothes and run through thorns for sport—hair slightly wrong, collar tugged, a faint scratch along the jaw. Retaliation, worn like a hymn. The corridor widened into a small alcove. A low table waited there, dark wood veined like old scars. One cup sat ready. Steam lifted in thin spirals. Comfort, staged in advance. Sofia’s throat tightened—not gratitude. Suspicion. Rowan’s smile snapped back into place. “Look at that. They remembered you are mortal.” “Or they remembered I have hands.” Sofia rubbed her palms together, letting the shake show—real enough, useful enough. The courtiers gestured. Invitation and command braided together. Sofia approached slowly. Winter citrus and woodsmoke rose with the steam. Her mouth watered, traitorous. Warmth meant safety to the body no matter what the mind knew. Her fingers hovered. Heat rolled off the ceramic in a promise that felt like mercy. She took it. Ceramic kissed her palms, warmth sinking into cold knuckles and tendons. She exhaled without meaning to. Steam fogged her lashes. Her shoulders dropped a fraction—then she caught herself and held them stiff. “You people do cold like it is a religion,” she muttered. Rowan’s breath puffed white. “That is the truth.” Sofia lifted the cup, letting the steam bathe her face. Amber-dark liquid trembled. No herbs she recognized. The scent stayed sharp and clean. “This is the first kind thing I have been offered that does not come with teeth.” A courtier shifted. Silence leaned closer. Even their quiet watched. Rowan’s eyes flicked—cup, Sofia’s mouth. Do not name it. Naming carried weight here. Sofia drank anyway. Careful sip. Heat slid down her throat, steady and real. Citrus brightened at the back of her tongue; smoke followed like a hearth that never quite forgot winter. Her fingers stopped aching. That pause did what it was meant to do. It softened her posture. Made her look human. Harmless. Grateful. Good. Let them think it worked. She kept her gaze low, on the cup, and let the corridor exist at the edges. Counting drafts. Watching lantern smoke drift. Noticing which courtier held themselves angled toward the passage ahead, like a dog bracing against a leash. A colder thread ran along the right side of the niche. Not stone-chill. Dense winter, enough to shove the steam sideways. Proximity. Landmark. Rowan shifted closer, shoulder almost touching hers, voice still light. “So what is the plan, Sofi? We are drinking tea and making friends?” “I am warming my hands,” Sofia answered, loud enough for the court. Then, under that: “I need them steady.” Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “For what?” “For my job.” Sofia lifted her gaze just enough to catch Rowan’s. “If someone collapses near your… hazard, I want to help.” Rowan held the stare. Fear lived there, yes. Something else flickered too—pride they would never admit to, annoyance at themselves for it. Their fingers brushed the back of Sofia’s wrist, quick and hidden by the cup. Pulse-check. Reminder. You are not alone. Skin on skin, and Sofia’s body clung to it like hunger. The warmth in her hands made the touch register too sharply. Rowan’s voice dropped. No performance. “They are watching you breathe.” “Let them.” Sofia kept her mouth calm while her stomach drew tight. “They cannot stop me from looking.” Rowan’s lips parted as if to argue. Their gaze dipped—Sofia’s mouth—then snapped back up. Half a second, stretched and charged. A courtier stepped closer, inserting themselves between moments without touching either of them. Rowan leaned back at once, smile locking into place like armor. “Tea is good, yes?” Rowan asked, too bright. Sofia took another sip and made herself not glare. “It is fine.” The courtier’s hand hovered. Waiting. Time to move. Sofia set the cup down. The loss of heat hit like a small grief. She flexed her fingers anyway, as if she had gotten what she wanted. “Thank you,” she said, because manners could cut when a knife could not. They resumed walking. Beyond the niche the corridor narrowed, colder than before. Frost feathered along the base of the walls—delicate, cruel. Sofia blinked and heard a faint crackle at her lashes. Lantern smoke thinned, as if even flame did not like to linger. Rowan kept their voice cheerful. Their body held tension like a drawn bow. “Now you are going to be sweet as pie, you hear? Ask your little EMT questions. Nod. Smile. No lunging.” “I do not lunge.” Rowan’s glance cut sideways. “You do. With your eyes.” The draft sharpened until the air tasted thin. Sofia’s breath came shallow as the cold tightened around her chest. Under her ribs, the bargain-mark pulsed—its own heartbeat answering something ahead. Inside the Wall. Not visible yet. Only implied. Like a bright thing you should not stare at for long. A pale line cut across the floor ahead—etched, salt-colored. Not salt. It gleamed like bone ground fine. Everyone stopped at it. Rowan. The courtiers. Sofia, toes inches from the boundary. Beyond, the corridor opened into an outer gallery. Stone columns rose in ranks, ribs of a kingdom. Air moved differently there—thick and slow, like the space resisted being filled. Sofia’s tongue tasted pennies. Rowan breathed, “There she is.” “Where?” The whisper in Sofia’s voice irritated her; the court wanted reverence, wanted fear, wanted her small. Rowan tipped their chin toward the far end. At first it looked like stone. Shadow. Nothing. Then her mind caught the pattern it kept trying to ignore: a long stretch of wall that refused lantern light. Not darker. Not lighter. Wrong. Like the surface drank glow instead of wearing it. The Wall. Her heart kicked hard enough to tighten her throat. Destiny, some poet would call it. Sofia kept her face blank. A courtier lifted a silent hand at the line. Do not cross. “Okay.” Sofia made her voice brisk. “If someone collapses near it, what is the move? Drag them back across the line? Do you touch them? Do you touch the Wall?” Rowan’s eyes narrowed, amused despite themself. “Sofi, you ask like there is an OSHA pamphlet.” “People die when no one knows what to do.” Rowan’s mouth tightened. “Here especially.” The courtiers offered nothing. No nod. No warning. Only quiet, daring her to do what she had already decided. Sofia stepped closer to the line without crossing. Cold thickened. Air turned viscous, resisting her lungs. Pennies sharpened on her tongue. Her molars buzzed with a vibration that settled into bone—an alarm no ear could shut out. Rowan’s hand shot out and caught her sleeve. “Hey. Do not.” “I am not crossing.” Sofia kept her voice steady. Her pulse refused. Rowan’s grip tightened. “Sofi.” “I need to know.” The words scraped raw on the way out. “I need something concrete. A way back. A way to stop him.” Rowan’s eyes flickered at Aldric Ashworth’s name, as if the syllables carried their own weight. “Ask him,” Rowan whispered. “I tried. He answers like a contract.” Rowan’s thumb rubbed once at her sleeve, a small, soothing motion that broke their own rule of distance. “Contracts are how he loves.” The sentence landed wrong and right at once, a blade sliding between ribs. Sofia swallowed, eyes fixed on the Wall’s wrongness. Still—she had to test it. Not with touch. Not with crossing. With the one thing they could not fully restrain without killing her. Attention. She breathed in slow. Out. Anchored herself the way she did at chaotic scenes. Then she pulled up a memory with deliberate care, like selecting a file on a screen. The Bronx. Summer heat shimmering off asphalt. Sirens braiding through traffic. Dispatch, sprint, compressions, curse, laugh, repeat. A bodega on the corner, neon sign buzzing and half-dead. Elena Kowalski in her ear—Move, Sofi, move. Sofia held it tight. Then she looked at the Wall again—not its surface, but the idea of it. Pressure closed around her temples, firm as hands. Her memory shuddered. The siren warped, stretched thin, snapped into a different pitch—too high, too clean. Asphalt heat cooled. The bodega sign dimmed. Details slid away like sparks caught in a draft. Her teeth buzzed harder. Rowan yanked her sleeve. “Stop. Stop thinking so hard.” “My memory is stuttering.” Sofia said it louder on purpose. Symptoms. Labels. Rope lines in a current. “That is not fear. That is it pulling.” The courtiers shifted. Their stillness rippled like a message passing without speech. Sofia tightened her grip on the Bronx memory. Held it like a torch. The Wall pulled again. Pennies flooded her mouth. Air thickened until breath dragged. Her vision edged with a faint shimmer, like heat-haze turned inside out. Lantern light bent toward the Wall. It fed on attention the way flame fed on air. “It reacts when I focus,” Sofia forced out through clenched teeth. “It eats attention.” Rowan’s eyes widened, face washed pale beneath whatever glamour they wore. “Sofi—” A deeper vibration rolled through Sofia’s jaw. The gallery itself seemed to hum. Not music. Not sound. A warning threaded into stone. Containment. A shimmer snapped into place along the boundary line, rising like a clear curtain. Sofia’s skin prickled. Under her ribs the bargain-mark flared, hot enough to tear a gasp out of her. Rowan stepped back, startled, heel catching the line. The shimmer caught them. Rowan’s breath punched out. Their eyes unfocused for a split second, like someone had yanked the plug on their mind. Hands flew to their head. “No—no, no…” “Rowan.” Sofia’s voice snapped sharp. “Look at me.” Rowan’s gaze skittered, would not land. Pupils blown wide, swallowing color. The Wall did not pull at Sofia alone. It cast wider, hungry for the nearest focus—Rowan’s sudden fear, the courtiers’ attention, hers. The kingdom’s machinery chose leverage. The shimmer tightened around Rowan’s waist, almost gentle. Then it yanked. Rowan stumbled toward the Wall. “Shit.” Sofia crossed the line. Cold slammed into her like a door. Gel-thick air turned heavier, pressing against skin. Her molars rang. The bargain-mark burned as if branded again. Rowan sagged, knees buckling, hands clawing at their throat like they could keep words from being stolen. Sofia hooked her arms under Rowan’s and hauled back. Their weight hit her shoulder—real, warm beneath the cold. “Do not look,” Rowan rasped. “Do not—do not—” “Look at me.” Sofia forced Rowan’s face toward hers. “Stay with me. Do not let it take the names.” Rowan’s mouth trembled. “I cannot—Sofi, I cannot remember—” The sentence broke. They tried to swallow the sob and failed. Frost glittered on their lashes. Sofia’s mind clicked into triage. Grounding. Breath. Touch. Simple. Physical. Real. “Breathe,” she ordered, voice steady enough to lend. “In. Out. Slow. Match me.” Rowan tried. Too fast at first. Chest fluttering. Sofia pressed two fingers to the side of their neck. Pulse: fast, thready. Panic. Her other hand cupped the back of Rowan’s head, holding them still, anchoring. “You are here,” she said. “You are safe. I have you.” Rowan’s eyes finally locked on hers. No play now. No performance. Something raw stared back, something that did not know how to bargain. Their breath warmed Sofia’s cheek in short bursts. Every tremor ran through Sofia’s palm at Rowan’s nape. Rowan’s lips parted, gaze dropping—Sofia’s mouth. Sofia’s own breath caught, stupid and human. If she leaned in— Footfalls thundered behind them. Not running. Arriving. The court’s patience in armor. Rowan flinched. The moment shattered. Sofia dragged Rowan back across the boundary line. The shimmer resisted, then released with a snap that raised gooseflesh along her arms. The vibration in her teeth eased a fraction. Pennies stayed. Rowan collapsed to their knees, palms on stone. Their skin went clammy beneath Sofia’s fingers, slick with fear-sweat that smelled metallic. “Move back,” Sofia barked at the courtiers—though none had stepped in. “Give them space.” A courtier shifted. Lantern smoke curled toward them, iron-sweet. No one obeyed. Of course. Rowan gagged, then sucked in air like they had surfaced from deep water. “Sofi,” they whispered, voice stripped bare. “I am sorry. I am sorry, I—” “Stop.” Sofia cut it off. “Save your breath.” Her hands moved anyway. She checked Rowan’s pupils. Lifted their chin. Found the wrist again. “You are not dying,” she said. “You are panicking and getting… drained. Tell me your name.” Rowan blinked hard, frost crackling faintly on lashes. “Rowan Thibodaux.” Relief hit their face so hard it nearly made Sofia buckle. “Good.” Sofia squeezed their shoulder, firm. “Stay with me. Tell me something true. Something simple.” Rowan’s laugh came out broken. “You are bossy.” “Damn right.” A new presence slid into the gallery like a shadow that belonged to a crown. Aldric Ashworth did not announce himself. The court rearranged its breath around him. Lantern flames bent, steadying, as if the air polished itself in his wake. Midnight velvet draped him, drinking light in a way that made Sofia’s stomach twist. His face held no wrongness, only too much right—perfect lines, calm mouth, eyes like a star gone cold. His gaze landed on Rowan first. Then on Sofia. It did not flicker. “Sofia Reyes,” Aldric said, each syllable placed like a seal. “You have crossed a boundary that was not offered.” Rowan tried to rise. Aldric lifted one finger. Rowan froze mid-motion, muscles locking as if the air had turned to binding thread. Their jaw clenched, tendons standing out. Sofia’s throat tightened. Anger tried to climb. She forced it down into something useful. Quiet. Precise. “They were pulled,” she said. “You saw it.” Aldric’s attention slid, almost gentle, to Rowan. “The Wall responds to attention. That is not new knowledge.” “It is new to me.” Sofia let the words bite. “You keep pretending it is just… architecture.” Aldric’s mouth softened. Not kindness. Selection of a sharper blade. “You have been kept from the outer galleries for a reason,” he replied. “You press against that reason as if your will can rewrite ancient power.” Rowan’s eyes darted to Sofia, wide: do not. Sofia stepped closer to Aldric, refusing the instinct to back away. “If there is a hazard, it should be marked. People get hurt.” Aldric’s gaze held hers. “People are not hurt by stone. They are hurt by what they offer the stone.” “I did not offer anything.” “You offered your attention.” Pennies flared on Sofia’s tongue again, sudden and sharp. Saliva pooled like the Wall waited behind her teeth. She swallowed hard. “You tightened control,” she said. “You searched my rooms.” Aldric did not deny it. “Your movements were… exploratory. The court’s duty is to preserve its kingdom.” “And Rowan?” Sofia jabbed a finger toward the kneeling figure locked in place. “Is that preservation? Using them as proof I am reckless?” Rowan’s nostrils flared. Fury burned hot under the binding. “I did not command the Wall to pull,” Aldric answered, careful as a clause in a contract. “Yet you did command circumstance by your curiosity.” Rowan’s breath hitched. Their eyes squeezed shut. Sofia’s hands curled into fists. Nails bit palm. “Let them go.” Aldric’s voice dropped, softer. “You may not issue demands in my gallery.” “I am not issuing.” Sofia’s voice steadied into something cold. “I am triaging. They are the patient.” A flicker crossed Aldric’s expression—interest, perhaps. Or annoyance at being addressed in a language that did not kneel. “Rowan Thibodaux chose to escort you,” he said. “That choice carries consequence.” Rowan’s eyes snapped open. “I—” Their voice cracked. “I am not— I mean, I did not—” “Do not,” Sofia cut in, sharp. “Do not confess to anything.” Aldric’s gaze snapped back to her. “You presume to counsel in my hearing.” “You want a treaty with humans?” Sofia asked. “Then stop treating me like a toy you wind up and watch break.” Stillness deepened around Aldric. The court leaned in, hungry. He took one step toward her. Cold followed—not from his clothes, but from the weight of power shaping air. “You are not a toy,” he said. “You are a keystone.” The word landed in Sofia’s chest like a dropped stone. Under her ribs the bargain-mark pulsed in answer, traitorous as breath. “Then tell me what for.” She forced her voice not to shake. “If you are going to use me, say what for.” Aldric’s gaze lingered on her mouth a fraction too long, calculation dressed as attention. Then he looked away, as if denying himself a thought. “The Wall is not merely a barrier,” he said. “It is a mechanism.” Sofia barked a humorless laugh. “No kidding.” He did not react. He simply adjusted his language around her sarcasm, smooth as water moving past rock. “It filters,” he continued, “and it feeds.” Rowan flinched at feeds like the word had teeth. Sofia’s stomach tightened. “Feeds on what?” Aldric’s eyes stayed steady, unblinking. “On human attention. On memory. On the devotion of minds that still look toward what they once believed.” Cold slid under Sofia’s skin. Elena Kowalski laughing in the ambulance bay. Kevin Nguyen babbling about thresholds like a nervous professor. Marcus Washington’s steady voice telling her to breathe when she wanted to explode. Her mother’s tired sigh when she thought Sofia was not listening. Fuel. “It eats what I notice,” Sofia said slowly, pinning the insight down so it could not wriggle away. Aldric’s eyes narrowed—the closest thing to surprise she had seen on him. The court shifted, a ripple of unease. Rowan’s whisper scraped raw. “Sofi…” Sofia did not stop. “And it does not just feed. It distracts. It keeps something busy.” Aldric’s expression went stiller. A locked door. Sofia’s mouth went dry. “What is behind it?” “That question is not for you.” “Then who?” she demanded. “Your courtiers? Your pretty silent watchers? Who gets to know what you are using my mind for?” Aldric’s gaze moved over her face like a hand measuring. “Your mind is already involved.” Rowan made a small sound—warning braided with grief. Sofia turned her head just enough to look past Aldric toward the Wall. Its wrongness seemed to pulse now, faint, as if her earlier focus had left a bruise it could press. Pennies returned, sharper. Aldric’s voice dropped into that knife-soft register. “Do not look.” Sofia did anyway. Not a stare. A glance that tried to be nothing. The Wall answered her half-attention with a sudden pull that tipped her vision. Bronx memory flashed—sirens, asphalt, Elena’s grin—then the siren cut mid-wail, replaced by a blank hush that made her ears ring. Her knees threatened to fold. Aldric caught her elbow. His grip burned through fabric—cold enough to bite. Authority lived in that touch, and something else that tightened the air between them like a cord drawn taut. “You insist on pain,” he murmured, close enough that his breath brushed her temple. “Is that your fate, Sofia Reyes? To prove yourself by bleeding?” The words struck too close to a scar she did not speak aloud. Sixteen years old. Frozen in a hallway. Her cousin’s cry. Her own useless hands. Sofia’s jaw clenched until it hurt. “Do not.” Aldric’s fingers tightened—precise, not cruel. “You should not stand so near the Wall. You are… loud to it.” “Because I am human,” she shot back. “Because I remember.” “Because you notice,” he corrected. Rowan’s voice shook, anger finally burning through. “You are hurting her.” Aldric did not look away from Sofia. “I am keeping her upright.” “I do not need you to hold me up.” Sofia yanked her elbow free. The motion cost her. The gallery tilted. Teeth-buzz surged again. Aldric did not reach for her a second time. He only watched, patient as a kingdom that outlasted rebellions. Rowan coughed, pushing against the binding. “Let me go. This is not—this is not right.” Aldric’s gaze flicked to Rowan at last. “You escorted her to a boundary that was forbidden.” Rowan’s laugh came out sharp. “Forbidden is not a reason. It is a threat.” “It is also a mercy.” Sofia stepped between Aldric and Rowan, planting her body in the line of consequence. “It was my idea. I asked. Rowan tried to stop me.” Rowan swallowed hard. Their shoulders twitched under the binding—hate at being defended, hate at owing anything. Aldric studied Sofia. “You would claim all blame.” “I am claiming reality.” Her voice stayed level by force. “And I am asking again. What is behind the Wall, and what happens when it is fed?” Silence. Heavy. Deliberate. Then Aldric spoke with the slow care of someone tightening a knot. “It is not fed for pleasure. It is fed because it must be kept contained.” Contained. The word rang in Sofia’s skull, colder than stone. Not decoration. Not monument. A cage. A shield. A machine turning her memories into noise to keep something from waking. Rowan’s breath hitched. Their eyes squeezed shut, like they had known this truth in pieces and never wanted the whole. “It noticed me,” Sofia said, voice rough. Aldric’s gaze sharpened. “Explain.” “It pulled,” she answered, slipping back into symptom-report because it kept her from spiraling. “Then it pushed something back. Like a presence. Like—” Recognition. Her skin prickled along her arms. Under her ribs the bargain-mark throbbed. In the corner of her vision the Wall shimmered—still, yet aware. Aldric’s face went unreadable. His hand flexed at his side. Restraint, held on purpose. “You have done enough,” he said. The courtiers moved. Cold, smooth silk cords snapped into existence around Sofia’s wrists. Not rope. Not chain. Something that wanted to be gentle while it restrained. Shock made her breath stutter. “No.” She twisted, muscle against silk. The cords tightened with polite firmness. Pain waited just beyond courtesy. Rowan surged forward against the binding. “Do not you—” A courtier pressed a hand down on Rowan’s shoulder, pinning them to stone. Rowan’s face contorted, fury bright enough Sofia thought—just for a heartbeat—they might bite. Sofia lunged toward Rowan. The cords yanked her back. “Move back,” she ordered anyway, voice cracking. “They are still recovering. You cannot—” Aldric stepped closer. The courtiers stopped as if his proximity alone drew the line. “You will return to your rooms,” he said. “Your confinement will be… clarified.” Sofia’s mouth went dry. “And Rowan?” Aldric’s gaze did not soften. “Rowan Thibodaux will answer for escorting you.” Rowan’s breath came in quick, furious bursts. Their eyes locked on Sofia’s, the performance stripped away. “Sofi, do not—do not you let them—” “Rowan.” Sofia forced her voice low and urgent. “Look at me. Listen. Breathe. Stay steady.” “I am steady,” Rowan snapped. Their hands trembled against the stone. Frost still clung to their lashes. Guilt rose hot in Sofia’s throat. Her choice had dragged Rowan here—her need to know, her hunger for a way home, for a way to stop Aldric. It had put a target on the one person in this kingdom who had reached for her without trying to own her. She strained against the silk cords until her wrists burned. “Punish me. Not them.” Aldric’s voice stayed soft. “That is not how leverage functions.” Blunt. Clean. The honesty knocked air from Sofia’s lungs. Rowan spat on the stone—a small, ugly act of defiance. “You are going to choke on your own kingdom one day.” Aldric’s gaze flicked to Rowan, mild as winter sunlight. “Perhaps. But not today.” The courtiers began to escort Sofia away. Their hands never touched her; the cords did the work. Each step pulled her farther from Rowan, farther from the Wall, farther from the brief heat of the cup. Sofia twisted enough to keep Rowan in sight. “I will fix this.” Rowan’s laugh broke. “You always say that.” “I mean it.” The words tasted like a vow she could not afford. “I am sorry.” Rowan’s eyes went bright, furious. “Do not be sorry. Be smart.” Aldric watched the exchange like it mattered more than he wanted it to. His gaze lingered on Sofia’s face, then drifted—calculating—to the Wall. They crossed back through the boundary line. The vibration in Sofia’s teeth faded, but the pennies taste clung stubborn as blood. As the corridor narrowed and the Wall slipped out of sight, something brushed the edge of her mind. Not a pull this time. A push. A presence pressing back through stone and mechanism and ancient power—fingertips against glass. Recognition, distinct and impossible. Not hunger. Sofia’s breath caught. Her heart stuttered once, hard. Whatever lived behind that Wall had noticed her noticing it. The court needed her human attention not just to feed itself, but to keep that thing contained. The silk cords tightened at her wrists as if the kingdom felt the shift. Ahead, the corridor bent toward her rooms—toward confinement, toward isolation. Behind her, Rowan’s ragged breathing echoed once, then cut off. The brush against her mind lingered, bright and unasked. Recognition. What, exactly, had recognized her—and what would it do if her attention stopped holding the kingdom together?