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"I’ll name him Disappointment."

Silas cackles. "Perfect. He can sit on Ambrose’s pillow."

The water’s cold, biting through the ridiculous pink pants clinging to my thighs. Mud seeps through the seams, and I’m vaguely aware of something squirming near my calf, but I don’t flinch. I let the wild of this place seep into my skin, because if I let myself think too hard—about Branwen, about the pillar, about what might come next—I’ll forget how to laugh. And gods know we need laughter, even if it comes dressed in frog slime and idiocy.

Silas dives forward suddenly, both hands plunging into the water, body curved like a dancer mid-lunge. He comes up victorious, a frog the size of his palm clutched in both hands.

"This one," he says breathlessly, reverent, "this one’s the boss. He’s the king. He’s the chaos."

He holds it out to me like he’s offering me a crown. The frog blinks slowly. Slimy. Massive. Slightly vibrating.

"No," I say.

"Yes," he insists, stepping closer. "Take him. Name him. Feel his power."

"Silas, I swear to all things sacred—"

"I’ll call him Trauma," he interrupts, pressing the frog into my hands with gentle, obnoxious care. "Because that’s what Ambrose is gonna need therapy for after this."

I hold the slimy bastard at arm’s length, my expression as deadpan as I can manage. "You’re disgusting."

He winks, already turning back to the water. "We’ve got nine. I want at least twenty."

"Why?"

"Because Ambrose has at least twenty reasons to suffer."

I shake my head, tucking Trauma into the sack before the little monster can leap into my cleavage. "You’re a menace."

"And you’re wearing hot pink pants in a haunted swamp," he calls. "We’re both past redemption."

By the time we slink back toward the house, our clothes are ruined. Mud slicks down my legs, the sack of frogs croaks loudly with each step, and Silas has a streak of slime in his hair that looks deliberate. Like a trophy.

We creep through the back, slipping in through the warped kitchen door that never quite shuts right. The house is quiet except for the low groan of old beams and the occasional thud of someone shifting upstairs. Silas presses a finger to his lips, eyes wild, grinning like a man on the edge of a felony.

I follow him.

We tiptoe up the stairs—if you can call it tiptoeing when his feet squelch with every step and I’m leaking mud. The hallway feels tighter than it should, like the walls know what we’re planning and want to join in. Moonlight spills through the crooked window at the end, casting everything in pale silver.

Ambrose’s door is shut.

Silas turns to me, eyes gleaming. "You ready?"

"No."

He eases the door open with agonizing care. It creaks—because of course it does—but nothing stirs inside. Ambrose sleeps like a vampire: motionless, precise, probably waiting to punish us for the audacity of joy.

The room is barely lit, just enough to catch the faint gleam of his raven hair where it spills over the pillow. His coat hangs on the chair. His boots are perfectly aligned. The entire space smells like cold steel and something darker—like old magic and colder regrets.

Silas leans toward me, whispers, "He’s gonna kill us."

I nod. "Slowly."

We step inside.

Frog by frog, we place them. On the dresser. The chair. The edge of the bed. One nestled into the crook of Ambrose’s knee like it’s found god.

Trauma goes last—centered on the pillow, facing him like a sentinel.