This wasn't my first time here. Which meant I knew exactly how to behave.
I moved without hesitation, my steps measured, neither hurried nor sluggish—just deferential enough to be expected, just confident enough to avoid seeming fearful. I crossed the chamber toward the side alcove where the tea set rested, my sleeves still folded neatly over my hands. The kettle sat where it always did, its metal faintly warm, the surface etched with elegant sigils that were unmistakably Seishan's handiwork. She had made it for one of Gunlaug's birthdays, allegedly. Whether he appreciated the sentiment or merely the craftsmanship was anyone's guess.
Probably the latter.
Behind me, Gunlaug and Harus took their usual positions. I did not need to look to know how they stood: Gunlaug upright and immovable, like a monument carved into flesh; Harus slightly hunched, his weight uneven, his presence coiled and predatory. They spoke in low tones, the kind meant to exclude.
Unfortunately for them, exclusion was relative.
Their words brushed against my mind easily, not as thoughts—never that crude—but as emotional currents and intent-bound echoes. I caught enough to reconstruct the whole conversation without effort.
New Sleepers. Too many. Too weak. Too undisciplined.
Gunlaug's irritation was sharp and metallic, like a blade drawn too often without tasting blood. He was displeased with how casually the Castle had treated the latest arrivals in the past. Ever since Sasrir and I had appeared—since the rules had been bent, broken, rewritten—he had stopped viewing newcomers as disposable background noise.
Harus, on the other hand, was eager.
His emotions were simpler, heavier. Anticipation. Violence thinly veiled as pragmatism. He suggested an initiation. Hazing, really. Something to "temper" the new blood. Something that would break the weak quickly and bind the survivors in fear and obedience.
Gunlaug did not disagree.
He refined it.
Structure. Control. A spectacle, perhaps. Something that would remind the Sleepers of their place before they ever entertained ideas of climbing higher.
I poured the tea carefully, letting the liquid settle before lifting the cups. The faint aroma rose—bitter, earthy, grounding. As I worked, an unhelpful image surfaced in my mind.
Changing Star, standing stiff and furious, enduring some contrived humiliation with murder in her eyes.
Sunless, silent and watchful, already plotting his revenge in the most painful way possible.
My lips twitched despite myself.
I suppressed the smile before it could form properly and turned, walking back toward them with both cups balanced perfectly. I placed one before Gunlaug, then one before Harus, lowering them with a smooth, practiced motion.
"As usual," I said lightly, my voice warm and unobtrusive, as though I hadn't heard a word of what they were planning.
Gunlaug's helmet tilted fractionally, his attention shifting to the tea. Harus eyed his cup for a moment longer than necessary, as if suspecting it of treachery, before wrapping his gnarled fingers around it.
Neither thanked me.
That was also usual.
I stepped back into my place at Gunlaug's left, hands returning to my sleeves, posture composed and harmless. Inside, though, my thoughts were already elsewhere—measuring, calculating.
An initiation, then.
How very nostalgic.
I wondered idly how many of the new Sleepers would survive it—and how many would come looking for me afterward, desperate for comfort, guidance, or absolution.
After all, someone would need to pick up the pieces.
My presence seemed to signal an unspoken pause in their discussion. Whatever schemes Gunlaug and Harus had been refining were folded away for later, replaced by the far more respectable activity of drinking tea and, presumably, contemplating how best to ruin someone else's life. Or strangle someone's baby. Metaphorically. Probably.
My thoughts, unhelpfully, snagged on the idea anyway.
Could Sleepers even give birth in the Dream Realm?
They could have sex. That much was obvious—people didn't suddenly become monks just because the sky was wrong and the ground wanted to eat them. But actual procreation? I frowned faintly, eyes unfocused as I stared at the polished floor.
A Master could. An Ascended was unified in body and soul; their existence was…complete, in a way the lower Ranks weren't. But Dormants? Awakened? Did the Spell bother simulating something as inconvenient as pregnancy?
Smile of Heaven… what Rank had she been again?
No, that wasn't relevant. Nephis had been born in the Waking World, from a physical body that obeyed physical laws. Entirely different framework. Apples and eldritch horrors.
I hummed quietly to myself, just barely audible, as my thoughts skittered onward without permission.
This always happened.
One moment I was a dutiful cupbearer, the next I was wandering mental side paths that led suspiciously close to madness. A rabbit hole adjacent to schizophrenia, as I liked to think of it. Still, I wasn't worried. If it ever became a problem, I could always Placate myself once I Awakened as a Sequence 7.
And if I couldn't?
Well. Going a little crazy wasn't the worst fate imaginable. Sunny had stared into the abyss, fallen into it, crawled back out, and then repeated the process at least a dozen times. Compared to that, a mild dissociative spiral felt almost quaint.
My gaze drifted, unfocused, as another thought surfaced.
I wonder how Effie and Kai are doing.
Kai was probably practicing his archery somewhere precarious, obsessively refining angles and distances as if perfection were a tangible thing he could eventually pierce. Effie, on the other hand, was almost certainly eating. Monster meat, human food, something vaguely edible—if it fit in her mouth, she'd find a way.
A faint smile tugged at my lips.
Gunlaug only allowed me one day a week outside the Castle. A generous leash, by his standards. Last time, I'd spent the entire day dealing with issues in the Settlement—disputes, shortages, tears, quiet confessions spoken like sins. Necessary work, but it meant I hadn't been able to see them.
Another seven days.
I sighed softly through my nose.
I hope they managed to scope out the path to the Dawn Shard like I asked.
That route mattered. Everything did, eventually. Paths, people, timing. Even idle thoughts had a way of looping back into relevance here, in the Forgotten Shore.
I straightened slightly, refocusing as Gunlaug set his cup down with a muted clink. The moment of quiet contemplation was over.
Back to the role, then.
Minister without portfolio. Cupbearer. Preacher. Paper figure.
I folded my hands in my sleeves once more and waited, gentle and attentive, already curious what fresh cruelty or necessity would demand my attention next.
A cathedral of black stone loomed over the surrounding ruins, its spires cutting into the ashen sky like the ribs of some enormous corpse. It was unmistakably human in design—arched buttresses, tall stained windows now clouded and cracked—but there was nothing comforting about it. Where other buildings sagged and crumbled, this one stood proud and intact, its scale and craftsmanship bordering on reverence. Even in the Forgotten Shore, it demanded attention.
Inside its shadow, leaning against one of the outer walls, was a woman with hazel hair tied back messily and skin darkened by sun and wind. She looked utterly out of place and perfectly at home all at once. One boot was propped against the stone as she tore into a thick leg of roasted meat, grease shining on her fingers. She ate with the enthusiasm of someone who had earned every bite through blood and exhaustion.
A spear rested against the wall beside her. Its shaft was scarred and worn, but the blade at its tip gleamed like crystal, catching even the dim light and refracting it into sharp, cold glints.
A short distance away stood a man with similarly hazel hair, his green eyes calm and focused. His face was almost unfairly beautiful—symmetrical, serene, the kind that inspired trust without effort. He hummed softly to himself as he worked, carefully fletching an arrow with practiced hands. Each movement was precise, economical, as if repetition had long ago burned away any wasted motion.
For a time, the two existed in comfortable silence.
Then footsteps echoed across stone.
Both of them looked up.
From the deeper shadows of the cathedral's entrance emerged Gemma. His posture was tense, shoulders tight, but the raw edge of fear that once clung to him was gone. Exposure had dulled it. Like most things in the Forgotten Shore, terror eventually gave way to familiarity.
He stopped a few paces from them, arms crossing loosely over his chest.
"Where's Sasrir and Seishan?" the woman asked, lowering the monster leg from her mouth. She wiped her fingers against her trousers without ceremony.
"They couldn't make it," Gemma replied flatly. "Something came up with the Guards and the Settlement. Sasrir's dealing with it. Seishan has…other priorities."
He paused, then added, "Adam's off serving Gunlaug, as usual."
The woman snorted quietly but said nothing.
Gemma glanced between them. "So. Any news you want to share?"
The man with the bow finished tying off the fletching before answering. He inspected the arrow once, nodded to himself, then finally looked up.
"We went west," Kai said calmly. "Just like Adam suggested."
The woman—Athena—shifted her weight and leaned back against the wall again, listening.
"We fought when we had to. Sneaked past things when we could," Kai continued. "A lot of abominations. Some familiar, most not. The difficulty ramps up fast at first, but after about six kilometers, it levels out."
Gemma's brow furrowed slightly.
"The monsters stop getting stronger," Kai clarified. "Not weaker—just…stable. No clear hierarchy either. Any kind of creature can show up, regardless of how deep you are."
"And the terrain?" Gemma asked.
Athena answered this time, biting off another chunk of meat before speaking. "A mess. No clean borders. No proper territories. One day a stretch is clear, the next it's crawling. Things move. Shift. Don't ask me how."
Kai nodded. "Exactly. Any route we chart now won't stay reliable for long. A few weeks, maybe less."
He hesitated, then spoke more bluntly.
"If you ask me, Adam should give up on claiming that Lord Shard. Even if the path exists, Gunlaug will never let him out long enough to go there and back."
The words hung in the air.