The word hangs between us. We, future tense, partnership implied. Nezavek's hand finds mine, shadows twining with flesh.
"Together," he agrees.
The preparations are complete. Weapons forged from shadow and void rest ready. Mikaere has adapted to three arms, practicing strikes that compensate for his missing limb. Päivi has drawn what she remembers of the gallery's layout on pages that hover between us. We know what we face tomorrow.
"Get some rest," I tell them. "We'll need everything we have."
Mikaere nods, lumbering toward his quarters. Each step leaves small cracks in the floor. The realm is barely holdingunder his weight. Päivi disperses into the remaining books, her way of sleeping.
Nezavek stays pressed against my back, neither of us moving to separate. Without the contact, he'll start dissolving again. We both know it.
"Tomorrow," he says quietly.
"Tomorrow," I agree.
But tonight stretches ahead of us, and something coils in my stomach. Not fear exactly, but awareness. Tomorrow we might die. Tonight, things remain unfinished between us. The bond pulses incomplete, the claiming only half-done, a sentence stopped mid-word.
I won't be able to sleep. Not with what's coming. Not with his body solid against mine and the memory of shadow tendrils still burning in my dreams.
NEZAVEK
Isit in what remains of my chambers, trying not to dissolve.
The effort requires more concentration than it should. Without Yorika's touch, my form scatters at the edges. I watch my left hand fade to translucence, pull it back to something solid, only to feel my shoulder wisp away. Each recovery takes longer. By dawn, I might not have enough substance left to fight.
The bottle helps focus my attention. Glass from a world that burned itself to create art, containing wine from vines that sang in three-part harmony. The Melodists of Virayn knew how to ferment music into liquid. This vintage is their last. I pulled it through a closing portal the day their sun went supernova, nearly four centuries ago. Shadow preservation keeps it perfect, time frozen around the bottle like black amber.
I've been saving it for something significant. Death, perhaps. Victory. A moment worth marking with the last wine of a dead civilization.
Tonight qualifies.
A knock at my door. Soft, uncertain. Three taps, then silence, then two more. Like she's arguing with herself about whether to enter. The bond pulses with her proximity. Her heart beats too fast for someone supposedly at rest.
"Come in."
Yorika enters, still wearing the clothes I manifested from shadow. Her hair hangs loose, silver catching what little light exists here. Dark circles shadow her eyes. Her shoulders curve forward with exhaustion, but her hand never strays far from her knife.
"Can't sleep?" I ask.
"Every time I close my eyes, I see the gallery." She pauses in the doorway, one foot in, one foot out. "I see Melara."
"The doorway is not the most comfortable place to have nightmares."
She takes three deliberate steps inside, then stops. Fourteen feet between us. Too far for her marks to anchor me, close enough that the bond pulls like a tide.
"I have wine," I offer, lifting the bottle. "The last bottle from Virayn. The vines grew in soil made from crushed stars and were tended by monks who spoke only in whispers."
"Why?"
"They believed loud voices scared the flavor away."
Her lips twitch. Not quite amusement, but the space where amusement might grow. "Did it work?"
"Taste it and tell me."
She moves closer. Ten feet. Eight. Takes the glass I pour. Our fingers brush during the exchange. My form solidifies instantly, edges sharpening from smoke to substance. She notices, doesn't pull away, settles into the chair across from mine. Four feet between us now. Close enough to reach if needed. Far enough to maintain the illusion of separation.
The wine shifts from sweet to sharp to something that burns cold. Complex notes that shouldn't exist in liquid form. Yorika's eyes widen at the first sip.
