Shifting into black smoke drains me—tears the marrow from my bones, leaves my magic trembling, scattered. My limbs reform sluggishly, patchwork and fragile. Every time I take this form, I lose something. A piece of what I once was.
I stagger through the castle halls on legs that remember war but ache like they’ve been hollowed. The walls pulse with magic—old, vile magic—the kind our family buried beneath every stone. Blood wards. Bone-sung curses. The castle is alive in the wrong ways. It feeds off suffering.
I collapse onto the silk sheets of my bed, breath shallow, strength flickering like a dying flame. The chamber is too large, too cold, though fire crackles in the hearth. I stare at the blackened ceiling, hearing it—always hearing it.
The call.
She sings to me without knowing. A p
