Page 124 of Whisper of Nightmares

“I’m ill?”

The question burrows into her like vermin, clawing in her belly and leaving her raw.

She thought he knew. Thought that knowing his name meant the full shape of who he was had returned to him. Thought that now he could her what happened and how she might save him in the waking world.

But the confusion etched into his sharp features fills her with dread.

“You…don’t remember?”

Slowly, he shakes his head. His gaze drifts down to his hands. “I only remember that Dagfinn is my name. That this room—” his gaze shifts to the doorway. “This room is mine. And this castle, I recognize it. Not as my own, but as something familiar. Like I’ve walked these halls hundreds of times.”

“You have,” Euphemia says with urgency. Whatever thoughts are forming, whatever memories are shimmering just beneath the surface, she needs him to reach for them. Needs to push him, if necessary. “You’ve lived here your whole life. With your mother. Your father. An advisor.”

Slowly, the crinkle in his brow deepens.

Euphemia gestures to the door. “I think the answers you’re seeking are in that chamber. All you need to do is enter.”

Dagfinn stares into the empty doorway, the door laying in splinters around them, the metal rings scattered at his feet.

He bends and retrieves one. Examines the etched surface. Runs his fingers over the fragments of an image. And for one fleeting moment, Euphemia thinks she’s finally going to know what’s beyond the mysterious door.

Until Dagfinn’s head snaps up.

Understanding makes his pupils contract.

He drops the metal ring and runs down the hallway in the opposite direction.

Down shifting hallways that tremble at his presence.

Through stone archways that yawn wider for him to pass.

Sconces burst with flame, lighting his path as Euphemia races after him.

Finally, they stop at the end of a plain passage, one with no windows and no runners. A single door stands at the end.

Instead of shoving it open, Dagfinn’s hand rests upon the dark wood. His chest rises and falls in deep, shaking swells of rhythm.

Euphemia steps beside him, hoping to be a calming presence.

Dagfinn glances down at her. He offers her a shaky smile. “I am starting to remember what I’ll find on the other side of this door.”

Euphemia frowns, looking at the simple wood frame. She’s certain she’s passed by this room during her exploration of Thorfell, but nothing about it is striking or memorable, it’s hard to imagine everything he’s been searching for might be on the other side.

But she laces her fingers with his and gives him a confident nod anyway.

Hands intertwined, Dagfinn pushes the door wide.

They enter a room thick with smoke and dim light. Juniper burns in metal pans throughout the room. Fresh rushes cover the floor beneath the bed like thatching, with meadowsweet and lavender scattered atop them.

But even with all the smoke, herbs, flowers, even with the window swung ajar to let in fresh air, the acrid stench of sickness and death clings to the room.

In the bed by the wall is a man tucked beneath heavy grey wolf pelts.

His face is anything but serene. A sheen of sweat glistens across his brow, and he winces as if in silent, perpetual pain.

And even though most of his hair has gone white, Euphemia can see the streaks of red that have resisted the change.

She knows without a doubt that this is Dagfinn’s father.