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I looked up at the window again and knew I couldn’t go back there. She would kill me. Right now, she needed to be the monster. But I could not save her by standing here bleeding.

I remembered the intel she had thrown at me in the alley. The specter alchemist. Conflicted essences. Supposed if Serion was manufacturing these items—masks, rings, bindings—the alchemist would know how they worked. I hoped he would know how to undo it, how to bring her back.

Clutching my side, I staggered to my feet and turned away from the morgue, away from the woman I loved, and ran toward the river. Toward the alchemist, the only hope I had left.

26. Remiel

I open my eyes and find a pair of faces quizzically looking down at me. The room still spins, a nauseating carousel of stones and shadows. The walls curve inward like a rib cage. Candles sputter in iron sconces, their flames warping into double shapes as my vision tilts. Shelves line the room from floor to ceiling. They are packed with tomes bound in leather, the color of dried blood. Strange glass vials, filled with swirling liquids that glow faintly blue, sit on tables. A faint sulfur haze hangs in the air.

“Are you all right?” a female voice calls. Vyxia. She extends a hand, acting as if she is trying to help me get up.

I then notice that I am on the cold stone floor. An unbearable ache rises in my chest as if a sledgehammer had been driven into me with the full force of a seraph. I gasp. The air in my lungs burns like acid.

“Wh-what happened?” I croak as I try to get up.

My limbs feel heavy as Eryon and Vyxia assist me back to my feet. Their grips are firm. Grounding. Behind them, tall windows stretch upward, and outside, the Crimson Keep looms in fractured silhouettes. A red sky burns over distant spires.

He looks at me with concern. His golden eyes flicker with genuine fear. “We entered Vyxia’s study, and you dropped dead. Like someone turned you off. Are you okay?”

I try to answer, but my tongue feels thick. Useless. I cannot breathe. For one confusing moment, it feels like I am in the middle of a tornado. Pictures, scenes, sensations—they all spin at dizzying speed in my mind. The room dissolves. The shelves blur into streaks, and the candles elongate into rivers of light. I feel as though I am going to faint again.

What is happening to me?

Confusion and panic settle in.

I see rain. Cold, relentless rain on a Parisian street. The smell of wet stones. The echo of passing cars.

I smell silver fire—the scent of burning bodies. Smoke rising in thick ribbons.

I taste blood. Copper and violets.

I try to process what my mind is showing me. It feels like a projection. But not a linear one. It is all jammed into one instant from multiple angles. Multiple times.

The images flash faster. Stroboscopic. Violent.

A bathtub in a ruined fortress. Steam rising like ghosts. Her skin pale and slick with water. My eyes on her. My name on her lips.

A rooftop in Prague. Howling wind. Valden’s cold smile. The silver ring on her finger. The jealousy rotting my gut.

The morgue. Her eyes as black as the void. Horns tearing through her brow. The scream that shattered the windows.

These are not dreams. They are memories.

My memories.

They were stolen, buried, but now, they claw their way back to the surface. They tear through the mental dam with jagged claws.

One picture slows down. Solidifies. The colors sharpen.

I see a vast dimly lit room. Heavy with the scent of opium and sex. Velvet drapes hanging heavy against the walls. A leather couch sits in the center. Bodies move like slow smoke around it.

I see a younger Eryon. His wings are intact. Magnificent. Iridescent. He stands behind the couch. People are everywhere. Dancing. Grinding. Wanting. The air is thick with pheromones and desperation. Low music thrums through the floor.

I have been there before. Something in the back of my mind knows the place.

Holy Dagger.

It is not a projection. It is me.