Zixuan jolted upright.
He wasn't asleep—he couldn't afford to sleep—but it felt like waking. Like something warm had just been ripped out of him.
Again.
The room he had holed himself in was nothing more than a supply cellar beneath the ruined manor. Old stone walls, broken crates, a rusted lantern. He hadn't lit it. He didn't need to. The shadows knew him now. They moved when he blinked.
He stared at the frayed rope tied to his wrist.
There had been six knots once.
Now?
Five.
He didn't breathe.
The rope had never been magical. It was just… something dumb they did during the ritual. "To remind us we're bound," Rhea had joked, looping it around each of their wrists as they laughed, none of them realizing what they were about to summon.
Or maybe some of them had.
Harith knew.
Cecilion knew.
Zixuan clenched his jaw. "Don't do this," he whispered, not to the rope. To himself.
But the air had already turned.
