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“That is all true,” Sorasa said, matter-of-fact. “We have three weeks from the moment the army leaves Rouleine. Three weeks.Maybe.”

The warm air seemed sucked from the room, the sun fading behind a cloud, leaving only gray rain to spatter the windows.

In the back of his mind, Dom wished Sorasa had let him sleep, and enjoy his peace a little bit longer. Instead, he stood from his chair, too awake now to bother. He wished for a bath, for a cold walk in the rain, for a spar in the training yard. For something to distract him.

He caught Corayne’s eye instead.

“Come with me,” he said, gesturing to the door.

She was eager to follow.

Corayne walked with the Spindleblade sheathed across her back. It looked uncomfortable but Dom knew she was well accustomed to the sword by now. He glared at it as they navigated the castle, noting the small imperfections and differences from the blade broken in Gidastern.

“I hate it too,” Corayne muttered, returning his gaze. “The hilt is wrong. The grip.” She reached up to touch the hilt. “It wore to his hand first.”

“We will take it to the armorer in the morning, and see what she can do to change that,” he rumbled, wrenching his eyes away. He could not help but remember all the lives the sword claimed, Cortael’s among them.

He could still hear the sound of steel shearing through armor, and then flesh.

Domacridhan did not enjoy the vaults below the castle. The spiraling passages, drilled down into the rock, had frightened him as a youth. They unsettled him now, the air too close and stale, as if the full weight of Tíarma pressed down on top of them. Even he did not know how deep they ran. Perhaps to the roots of the world itself.

He eyed the doors of each vault, some of them cracked ajar, some of them undisturbed for centuries. Treasure and useless cast-offs in each. Then he stopped short before a familiar door, blowing out a pained breath. He stared at the wood as if he could see through it, to the small room on the other side.

Corayne halted beside him, puzzled.

“The Cor vaults are deeper,” she said, pointing down into the bowels of the rock. “My father’s things—”

“Your father’s memory is not in jeweled armor,” Dom bit out.

His palm lay flat against the wood, pale skin sharp in contrast to the black ebony. It swung open below his hand, yawning onto darkness, the only light spilling inward from the passage.

He did not hesitate, stepping into the shadows. His Vederan eyes did not need much light to see by, but he lit a few candles for Corayne’s benefit, illuminating the chamber.

She lingered in the doorway, staring at the stone floor. As if she could not bear it.

Dom shared the feeling. He forced himself to look anyway.

He knew what it felt like to be stabbed, burned, chained in darkness, drowned, and smothered. He knew what it was to look death in the eye.

Life was worse.

Cortael’s entire life sprawled around them, written in the objects left behind. Training swords, blunted, short as Dom’s forearm, too small for a man but perfectly sized for a mortal boy. Stacks of parchment, letters painstakingly written, Paramount translated into High Vederan and back again.

Cortael once practiced their language more than anything, even his swordsmanship, so dedicated was he to learning the tongue of the immortals he lived beside. He spoke it better than Dom ever thought he could, his pronunciation near perfect by the end.

The memory made his throat tighten, and he tore his gaze away, to the other shelves laden with clothes. Breeches, tunics, cloaks, and jerkins. Some sized for a child, others for a man full grown. All of it lay folded neatly in shelves and in trunks, never to see the light of day again.

“There is no dust,” Corayne said in a hushed voice. Slowly, her eyes shining, she stepped into the vault.

“These chambers are well tended,” Dom replied hoarsely. He ran a hand over a wooden horse, whittled to smooth perfection. It was missing a leg, snapped clean off.

“I remember when he broke this,” he muttered, picking up the toy. His finger traced the rough edge of broken wood. “Not two days after I finished making it for him.”

Corayne drew closer, her breath ragged. She stared at the horse but would not touch it.

“What was he like?” she breathed. “As a boy?”

“Wild,” Dom said, without hesitation. “Wild and curious.”