The dream smelled like burning parchment.

  Sorin stood in a hall of blackened stone, his boots sinking into ash that whispered wrong, wrong, wrong with every step. Above him, the ceiling yawned open to a sky the color of a fresh bruise. The Exiled One waited at the far end, their mask reflecting no light—just the hollows where eyes should be.

  "You’re late," they said. Their voice was a whetstone dragged over steel.

  Sorin flexed his hands, the golden scars along his wrists pulsing. "I didn’t agree to this."

  "You never do." The Exiled One gestured, and the castle shifted. Walls peeled back like rotting skin, revealing a training yard choked with thorned vines. A dummy hung from a post, its burlap face stitched into a crude crown. "Again."

  Sorin lunged.

  Their sparring was less a dance and more a collapse—each strike meant to destabilize, not kill. The Exiled One moved with infuriating precision, their blows landing just shy of brutality. Sorin’s ribs ached anyway.

  "Focus," the Exiled One snapped as Sorin stumbled. "The Hollow King didn’t hesitate."

  "I’m not him!" Sorin swung wildly. His fist connected with the dummy’s head, and it burst into golden embers.

  For a heartbeat, the dream stuttered. The ashes swirled into a shape—a child’s face, wide-eyed and terrified. Then it was gone.

  The Exiled One went very still. "Aren’t you?"

  The castle reshaped itself into a library, shelves stretching into darkness. Books bled ink onto the floor, their pages blank.

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  A man sat at a broken desk, his form flickering like a guttering candle. He wore scholar’s robes, but his edges were blurred, as if someone had tried to erase him and given up halfway.

  "Ah," the man—Elias—said, peering at Sorin. "Lira’s echo."

  Sorin’s breath hitched. "Who’s Lira?"

  The Exiled One’s mask tilted. "A mistake."

  Elias chuckled, tapping a quill against his temple. "Or the only thing worth remembering." He lifted a book, its cover warped. "Shall we try again? The Fall of Blackspire, Chapter Seven: The King’s Regret—"

  "No." The Exiled One snatched the book away. It dissolved into moths.

  Sorin reached for the remnants. "What are you hiding?"

  "Teaching," the Exiled One corrected. They seized Sorin’s wrist, their grip freezing. "You rewind time without thinking. Like a child rewinding a music box to avoid the ending."

  Sorin wrenched free. "Then show me the ending."

  The Exiled One hesitated—just for a breath—before slamming their palm against Sorin’s chest.

  The world tore open.

  Sorin fell into memory.

  —the Hollow King (him, not him) stood on a balcony, his crown cracked down the middle. Below, a city burned. A child (Lira?) screamed his name. He turned—

  —and the Exiled One was there, maskless. Older. Grief carved into features Sorin knew too well. Kael’s face, but hardened by years of running. "You were supposed to let go," the Exiled One whispered. "Why couldn’t you let go?"

  Sorin gasped. He rewound it—the scene unraveling like a snapped thread—

  —and saw it.

  A fracture in the Exiled One’s mask. A single, silent tear cutting through the porcelain before the moment reset.

  Then the dream shattered.

  Sorin woke with a gasp, his scars searing.

  Kael’s arms tightened around him. "Easy, firefly. You were thrashing like a cat in a sack."

  Sorin jerked upright. They were in a derelict tavern, dawn filtering through broken shutters. Kael’s lute lay abandoned beside him, its strings still humming.

  "How did I get here?" Sorin demanded.

  Kael blinked. "You… walked?" His grin faltered. "Wait. Did you not walk?"

  A chill crawled up Sorin’s spine. Kael didn’t remember carrying him.

  The Exiled One’s voice echoed in his skull: "You keep trying to outrun the past. But what if it’s running toward you?"

  Outside, a Hound howled. Closer this time.

  Kael tossed Sorin a dagger, his usual smirk back in place. "Next time, warn me before you nap mid-apocalypse."

  Sorin caught it, his fingers trembling. The blade’s edge reflected his face—and for a heartbeat, the Hollow King’s crown flickered atop his brow.