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“Why are theyscreaming?” Luna shouts, crawling toward the edge of the hall as I pull her up beside me.

“Because they’re pissed?” I offer. “Trapped souls tend to get cranky.”

She throws me a glare that could curdle blood. “Helpful.”

Silas grabs a ghost by the wrists—not that it has wrists—andtwirlswith it like it’s prom night. “Riven! Do something! Call your door-demon girlfriend off!”

“She’s notmine!” Riven growls, and the ground beneath his feet scorches with residual magic. The heat pulses out of him in sharp bursts. He’s trying to seal the sigil, trying to reverse the pull. But it’s not just summoning. It’sreleasing.A vault of rage and memory that’s been building for gods know how long.

Ghosts begin to flicker. Some vanish entirely. Others fade, crackling at the edges. Riven snarls something under his breath and slams his palm to the floor.

And everythingstops.

Stillness. As if the hallway forgot how to breathe.

A single ghost remains—floating in front of the door. Female. Tall. Her dress is old—council era. Her face is a mess of beauty and ruin, and she stares at Luna with eyes thatsee.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the ghost whispers. Voice like torn silk.

“I know,” Luna replies quietly.

And then she’s gone. Snapped out of existence like she never was.

Riven slumps. Silas groans, disappointed. Caspian exhales shakily, and I lean my head back against the wall, heart thudding like a war drum in my ribs.

“Next time,” I say flatly, “can wenottouch ancient doors with curses older than sin?”

Luna nods, brushing ghost dust off her sleeves. “Noted.”

Silas claps his hands once. “Let’s do it again!”

Ambrose

So how the hell do we get through a door we can’t touch?

The question hangs in the thick quiet. No ghosts left to scream. Just the creak of old stone settling and the pulse of residual magic underfoot—angry, defensive, and not ours.

“Do we knock?” Elias asks flatly, deadpan. “Maybe apologize to the dead for breaking their little tantrum seal?”

Silas raises a hand, eyes gleaming with faux seriousness. “I nominate Caspian to seduce the door.”

Caspian, arms crossed, doesn’t even flinch. “I don’t seduce furniture.”

“Youcould,” Silas drawls. “Bet you’d be great at it. Whisper sweet nothings to the hinges. Maybe show a little thigh.”

I glance at Caspian, but he’s already looking away, shoulders tense. He hasn’t touched his power since Branwen. Not even a flicker of it. And while no one’s said it out loud, we all feel the gap. Lust without temptation is just sorrow with good cheekbones.

Silas makes a sudden noise—half gasp, half dramatic inspiration—and spins toward the door like he’s just discovered fire. “Stand back,” he says, waving a hand as if he’s about to defuse a bomb.

“Why do I feel like this is going to be the opposite of helpful?” I mutter, but I don’t stop him.

He pulls his shirt off with a flourish like he’s auditioning for a role in an erotic circus, and plants both feet like a summoner about to call down thunder. But instead, with a few muttered words and a sparkle of magic that smells suspiciously like ozone and bubblegum, atiny Silasappears beside him.

Shirtless.

Grinning.

“Ta-da!” Silas beams. “Meet Mini Me. Now with 90% less impulse control.”