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Too quiet.

Silas bumps into me on purpose and grins like a lunatic. “Hey,” he whispers, “what if the reason Blackwell hasn’t come back is ‘cause he’s dead? Or possessed. Ooooh. Do you think he exploded? That would be a super fun twist.”

“Or maybe he just has better things to do than babysit a bunch of cursed immortals who don’t know how to behave in a library,” I mutter, sidestepping him. “Unlikesomepeople.”

Silas winks. “You wound me, Eli.”

“I hope so.”

I shove my hands back in my pockets, kicking a loose tile that shifts under my boot. I’ve never liked Blackwell. Too clean, too polished, like everything about him was designed to put people at ease—and that’s what made him dangerous. He wasn’tpowerful like Orin or vicious like Ambrose. He wasquietly competent, which in our world meant he was the kind of man who'd already buried bodies by the time you realized you were bleeding.

He was placed here by the Council, that much we all knew. His allegiance was never to us, not really. He didn’t teach. He watched. Listened. Reported. Always standing just close enough to be useful, never close enough to trust. And now? He's been gone too long. Long enough that even the fearless are asking questions.

“Why didn’t we just send Ambrose in?” I ask no one in particular. “This reeks of a solo mission.”

Luna glances over her shoulder. “Becauseyoudidn’t have anything better to do.”

“Lies,” I say. “I had a hot date with unconsciousness. She’s soft, she doesn’t talk, and she smells like chamomile.”

“You don’t evenlikechamomile,” she says, and there's that twitch at the corner of her mouth. I watch for it, always. She never laughs the way Silas does, but when shewantsto—when she almost does—it’s better than any actual punchline.

Riven pauses in front of the carved wooden doors that lead into Blackwell’s inner sanctum. His hand lifts, not to touch it, but to hover. Test. Sense. The air crackles faintly under his palm, a residual hum that suggests somethingwashere—but isn’t anymore.

“Well?” I ask. “Are we about to get cursed, or is this another wild goose chase brought to you by insomnia and boredom?”

He looks over at Luna, then back at the door. “It’s clean. Too clean.”

“Cool. So definitely cursed,” I mutter. “Glad I wore my least flammable hoodie.”

She steps up beside me, her presence brushing against my shoulder like a warm, chaotic storm barely held in check. “Stopcomplaining. You were the one who said you wanted more excitement.”

“I meant like… a fistfight. Or sex on the roof. Not a Scooby-Doo mystery with ghost traps.”

Silas snorts behind me, and I hear Caspian murmur, “I’d actually pay to watch you try and have sex on a roof. The logistics alone…”

I sigh. Loudly. “Why do I even hang out with any of you?”

Riven’s fingers barely graze the chapel door before it convulses under his touch—groaning, splintering, and exhaling a moan like something ancient waking from a too-long sleep. And then all hell breaks loose.

The door doesn’t open. Itruptures. Not like wood, not like matter, but like a veil that’s been torn wide. The air buckles. The ground stutters beneath our feet. And the hallway erupts in a cold rush of screaming.

Not people.Ghosts.

Dozens—maybe more—spiraling out of the fractured doorway in a violent torrent, each one a blur of hollow eyes and clawed regret. They aren’t just ghosts. They’reechoes. Dead things caught in a loop, reliving their ends. Bleeding magic. Shrieking through the air in a fury of limbs and half-formed memories.

“Fucking—what thehell, Riven?” I bark, stumbling back as one swipes near my face, a gaunt thing with too many teeth and no mouth. “Touch literallyanythingelse, I dare you!”

“Wasn’t me,” he grits out, already summoning his power. “There was a sigil under the door. Triggered when it sensed our magic.”

Of course. Ofcoursethe cursed office would be booby-trapped with ghost mines. Whywouldn’tit?

Silas is laughing.Laughing, like this is the best day of his undead life. He dodges a screaming woman in a war gown, whoflies straight through the wall. “This is incredible!” he howls. “They’re like angry parade balloons with issues!”

“Shut up!” I duck another one, dragging time into a crawl. Everything slows. Ghosts become syrupy drags of white and blue, the sound of their screams stretching into a low moan that sets my molars on edge. “Luna,down!”

She drops, bless her, right as a ghost of some long-dead scholar lunges overhead. Her head whips around, eyes wild. She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches the chaos, calculating. Planning. It’s hot. It’sreallyhot. I hate myself for noticing it while the dead do aerial acrobatics around us.

Caspian stumbles out of the path of a spectral knight in broken armor, his face pale but set. He’s not using his magic—not yet. I can see it in the tremble of his hand. Whatever Branwen did to him, it still has a chokehold on his power. And that makes me want to punch something. Or someone. Preferably Branwen.