He remembered the pain, and the blood, and the fear, and finally the quiet and the dark. The surrender of letting go, of sinking down, away, and the shock of being dragged back, the force of it like falling, a terrible, jarring pain when he hit the ground. Only he wasn’t falling down. He was falling up. Surging back to the surface of himself, and then, and then.

And then the tonic finally took hold, the memories silenced as the past and present both mercifully faded and Rhy slipped feverishly down into sleep.

V

WHITE LONDON

Holland paced the royal chamber.

It was as vast and vaulting as the throne room, with broad windows to every side. Built into the castle’s western spire, it overlooked the entire city. From here he could see the glow from the Sijlt dance like moonlight against the low clouds, see lamps burn pale but steady, diffused by windowpanes and low mist, see the city—his city—sleep and wake, rest and stir, and return to life.

His head snapped up as something landed on the sill—power surged reflexively to the surface—but it was just a bird. White and grey with a pale gold crest, and eyes that shone as black as Holland’s. He exhaled.

A bird.

How long had it been since he’d seen one? Animals had fled with the magic long ago, rooting out the distant places where the world wasn’t dying, burrowing down to reach the retreating life. Any creature foolish enough to stray within reach was slaughtered for sustenance or spellwork, or both. The Danes had kept two horses, pristine white beasts, and even those had fallen in the days after their deaths, when the city plunged into chaos and slaughter for the crown. Holland had missed those early days, of course. He’d spent them clinging to life in a garden a world away.

But here, now, was a bird.

He didn’t realize he was reaching toward it until it ruffled and took wing, his fingertips grazing its feathers before it was out of reach.

A single bird. But it was a sign. The world was changing.

Osaron could summon many things, but not this. Nothing with a heartbeat, nothing with a soul. Holland supposed that was for the best. After all, if Osaron could make a body of his own, he would have no need for Holland. And as much as Holland needed Osaron’s magic, the thought of the oshoc moving freely sent a shiver through him. No, Holland was not only Osaron’s partner, he was Osaron’s prison.

And his prisoner was growing restless.

More.

The voice echoed in his head.

Holland took up a book and began to read, but he was only two pages in when the paper shuddered, as if caught by a wind, and the whole thing—from parchment to cover—turned to glass in his hands.

“This is childish,” he murmured, setting the ruined book aside and splaying his hands across the sill.

More.

He felt a tremor beneath his palms and looked down to find tendrils of fog sprawling over the stone and leaving frost, flowers, ivy, fire in their wake.

Holland wrenched his hands away as if burned.

“Stop this,” he said, turning his gaze on the looking glass, a tall, elegant mirror between two windows. He looked at his reflection and saw Osaron’s impatient, impetuous gaze.

We could do more.

We could be more.

We could have more.

We could have anything.

And instead …

The magic slithered forth, snaked out from Holland’s own hands, a hundred wisp-thin lines that swept and arced around him, threading from wall to wall and ceiling to floor until he stood in the center of a cage.

Holland shook his head and dispelled the illusion. “This is my world,” he said. “It is not a canvas for your whims.”

You have no vision, sulked Osaron from the reflection.

“I have vision,” replied Holland. “I have seen what happened to your world.”

Osaron said nothing, but Holland could feel his restlessness. Could feel the oshoc pacing the edges of the Antari’s self, wearing grooves into his mind. Osaron was as old as the world, and as wild.

Holland closed his eyes and tried to force calm like a blanket over them both. He needed sleep. A large bed sat in the very center of the room, elegant but untouched. Holland didn’t sleep. Not well. Athos had spent too many years carving—cutting, burning, breaking—the distrust of peace into his body. His muscles refused to unclench; his mind wouldn’t unwind; the walls he’d built hadn’t been built to come down. Athos might be dead, but Holland couldn’t shake the fear that when his eyes closed, Osaron’s might open. Couldn’t bear the thought of surrendering control again.

He’d stationed guards beyond his room to make sure he didn’t wander, but every time he woke, the chamber looked different. A spray of roses climbing the window, a chandelier of ice, a carpet of moss or some exotic fabric—some small change wrought in the night.

We had a deal.

He could feel the oshoc’s will warring with his own, growing stronger every day, and though Holland was still in control, he didn’t know for how much longer. Something would have to be sacrificed. Or someone.

Holland opened his eyes, and met the oshoc’s gaze.

“I want to make a new deal.”

In the mirror, Osaron inclined his head, waiting, listening.

“I will find you another body.”

Osaron’s expression soured. They are too weak to sustain me. Even Ojka would crumble under my true touch.

“I will find you a body as strong as mine,” said Holland carefully.

Osaron looked intrigued. An Antari?

Holland pressed on. “And his world. To make your own. And in return, you will leave this world to me. Not as it was, but as it can be. Restored.”