He's right.
I carefully tear out the magazine page, folding it with reverence before tucking it into my jacket. This information is too important to lose.
"Thank you," I tell the room, the books, the memories they've preserved.
The books flutter in response, a sound like applause made of paper. One small picture book bonks against my hand affectionately before floating away.
As I move toward the door, I feel it—the pulse of shadow magic that's uniquely Cassius.
He's close, his room somewhere nearby in the impossible geography of this place.
Be careful,Mortimer warns.His trial will be different from Atticus's. Shadows turned inward become something else entirely.
"I know," I murmur, already moving toward the pull of our bond. I have a feeling I’m going to get my ass beat by tendrils, and not in the pleasureable way I would have secretly enjoyed.
The door to Cassius's room is exactly what I expected—pure shadow given form, darkness so complete it seems to absorb surrounding light. But there are cracks in it, thin lines of silver that suggest something breaking through from inside.
Or breaking out.
Grim makes a worried "gree" sound, hiding behind my hair.
"It's okay," I tell him, though I'm not entirely sure that's true. "Cassius won't hurt us."
Cassius won't,Mortimer agrees carefully.But whatever the trial has made him believe he is might.
The warning sends chills down my spine, but I've come too far to hesitate now. My hand finds the shadow-door's handle—cold enough to burn, dark enough to blind—and I turn it.
The door opens silently, revealing darkness that makes Atticus's trial look bright by comparison.
But this darkness isn't empty.
It's full of mirrors.
Hundreds of them, each one reflecting different versions of Cassius. Some show him as the controlled prince of shadows I know. Others show him younger, angrier, covered in blood that might be his or might be others'. Still others show possibilities—Cassius crowned in darkness, Cassius alone in empty realm,Cassius corrupted by power until shadows consume rather than serve.
And in the center of it all, the real Cassius stands perfectly still.
His eyes are closed, shadows writhing around him in patterns that speak of internal war. He doesn't react to the door opening, doesn't acknowledge my presence.
Because in his trial, he's fighting himself.
All his selves.
Every version he could have been, should have been, fears becoming.
"Cassius," I call softly.
Every reflection turns to look at me simultaneously, hundreds of silver eyes opening in perfect synchronization.
"You shouldn't be here," they all say in harmony that makes reality shiver. "We're dangerous. We've always been dangerous. We just got better at hiding it."
The words are delivered with such certainty that I almost believe them. Almost.
But I know better.
I know him better.
"You're not dangerous," I tell them all, stepping into the room despite Grim's worried noises. "You're controlled. There's a difference."
