The music box was smaller than Kael remembered.

  He’d seen it once before, years ago, tucked away in the vaults of the Canticle of the Unforgotten. Back then, he’d been too busy pocketing silverware to pay it much mind. Now, with the Exiled One’s face—his face, gods, his future face—burned into his vision, the box felt like the only thread left to pull.

  "You’ve forgotten something important," Jessa had said. "Dead worlds don’t sing for nothing."

  Kael ran a thumb over the box’s tarnished lid, the metal icy against his skin. The workshop around him was a chaos of gears and half-built automatons, the air thick with the scent of oil and burnt copper. In the corner, Pip, the clockmaker, adjusted the wings of a mechanical sparrow with hands that moved too precisely for a child’s. The bird chirped a question in staccato clicks.

  Right. No talking. Kael forced a grin. "How much for the box?"

  Pip’s eyes—wide and dark as a doll’s—flicked to the shelf behind him, where a ledger lay open. The price was scrawled in smudged ink: 3 memories or 1 truth.

  Kael’s stomach dropped. "Bit steep for a trinket, isn’t it?"

  The sparrow pecked his wrist. Hard.

  "Ow! Fine, fine." He hesitated. Memories were dangerous currency these days. But truths? Those were worse. "What kind of truth?"

  Pip tilted their head, then pointed to the music box.

  Ah. Kael exhaled. "You want to know what it plays."

  A nod.

  He could lie. He should lie. But the weight of the Exiled One’s mask, the way it had fit Kael’s bones like a second skin—

  He opened the box.

  The lullaby was soft at first, a whisper of plucked strings. Then the words seeped in, not through sound but through the ache behind his ribs:

  "You were never meant to endure."

  Kael’s breath hitched. That was the line from Sorin’s dreams. The one he’d muttered in his sleep last night, golden scars pulsing like a sick heartbeat.

  Pip’s sparrow went still.

  Then the workshop’s door slammed open.

  "Kael!" Nyx’s voice, all mischief and knives. "You’re terrible at hiding."

  Kael snapped the box shut, but not fast enough. Nyx’s eyes—sharp as a thief’s fingers—locked onto it.

  "Ohhh," they crooned. "Is that a secret?"

  Nyx had three rules for life:

  Never trust a locked door.

  The best lies taste like generosity.

  If something’s precious, it’s more fun to steal.

  So when Kael tucked that music box into his coat like it was made of glass, Nyx’s fingers itched.

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  They waited until he’d staggered off to brood somewhere (probably with that moody archivist, Aeris). Then Nyx slipped into Pip’s workshop, tossing a pouch of stolen clockwork onto the counter.

  "Make me a copy," they said.

  Pip blinked. The sparrow on their shoulder let out a skeptical warble.

  Nyx rolled their eyes. "Not a perfect one. Just enough to fool a heartbroken bard for five minutes." They leaned in, grinning. "I’ll even pay you in secrets."

  Pip’s fingers twitched. Interested.

  Good.

  By sundown, Nyx had their fake—a pretty thing with a forgettable tune. They swapped it while Kael was drowning his sorrows in the tavern, the real music box now tucked safely in their room.

  Let’s see what you’re hiding, they thought, lifting the lid.

  The lullaby that spilled out wasn’t the one Kael had heard.

  This one was slower. Darker. The voice in Nyx’s head wasn’t a whisper but a scream:

  "Nothing lasts—

  not even kings,

  not even thieves,

  not even me."

  Nyx dropped the box.

  The lid snapped shut on its own.

  Across the room, the shadow of their coat rack stretched too long, too thin—

  —and blinked.

  The tavern door swung shut behind Kael, muffling the raucous laughter inside. The fake music box weighed heavy in his pocket—lighter than the real one had been, but somehow more oppressive. He’d hoped the ale would dull the lullaby’s words still echoing in his skull.

  You were never meant to endure.

  But the drink had only made it worse.

  He trudged through the winding streets of Lumin Hollow, the lamplight flickering like dying stars. The city had begun repairs after the Hounds’ attack, but the scars were still fresh—shattered windows boarded up, scorch marks staining the cobblestones. A group of children darted past, their laughter too bright for the ruins around them. One bumped into Kael, then froze when she recognized him.

  "You’re the bard," she whispered. "The one who sings about the Hollow King."

  Kael forced a smile. "And what’s your name?"

  "Lira."

  The name hit him like a fist to the chest.

  Flash of memory—a child’s hand slipping from his grasp, a scream swallowed by smoke—

  He staggered. The girl—Lira, just a coincidence, just a name—frowned. "Are you okay?"

  "Fine," he rasped. "Run along now."

  She hesitated, then dashed off, her shoes slapping against the wet stone. Kael exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He needed to get back to the others. Needed to tell Sorin about the music box, about the lullaby, about—

  About what? That he might’ve once let a child die?

  His stomach twisted.

  A shadow moved in the alleyway ahead.

  Kael’s hand went to his dagger. "Who’s there?"

  No answer. Just the distant drip of rainwater and the creak of a rusted sign swinging in the wind.

  Then—

  A whisper.

  "Kael."

  The voice was his own.

  Back in their room, Nyx stared at the music box on their nightstand.

  It was playing again.

  They hadn’t touched it. Hadn’t even breathed near it. Yet the lid had creaked open on its own, the lullaby winding through the room like smoke.

  "Nothing lasts—

  not even kings,

  not even thieves,

  not even me."

  Nyx swallowed. They’d stolen cursed things before—a necklace that whispered lies, a dagger that thirsted for its owner’s blood—but this was different. This wasn’t just cursed.

  It was hungry.

  The coat rack’s shadow stretched again, this time reaching toward the bed. Nyx rolled off the mattress just as something grazed their ankle—cold as grave dirt.

  "Okay," they muttered, backing toward the door. "New rule: no more stealing sentient music boxes."

  The lullaby swelled. The box’s gears whirred faster, the melody distorting into something jagged. The air smelled like burnt sugar.

  Then the door slammed shut behind them.

  Nyx whirled.

  The Exiled One stood in the doorway.

  Kael ran.

  The shadow kept pace, flickering at the edges of his vision. It didn’t chase so much as wait for him—around every corner, in every pool of darkness.

  "You’re running out of time," his own voice murmured.

  He skidded to a stop in front of Pip’s workshop. The door was ajar.

  Inside, the clockmaker was gone. The sparrow lay in pieces on the workbench, its gears spilled like entrails. The ledger was open to a new page, the ink still wet:

  THE CROWN REMEMBERS. THE THIEF FORGETS.

  Kael’s pulse pounded in his ears. He needed to find Nyx. Needed to—

  A hand clamped over his mouth.

  "Shhh," Nyx hissed in his ear. "We’ve got problems."

  They dragged him behind a shelf just as the Exiled One stepped into the workshop.

  The future version of Kael moved differently—less of the bard’s swagger, more of a predator’s precision. His mask was off, revealing the scars that hadn’t yet marked present-day Kael’s face.

  He picked up the broken sparrow.

  "Pip always did talk too much," the Exiled One murmured.

  Then he crushed the bird in his fist.