Phelan and I gathered nightmares. We walked the streets in the evening with our shields on our arms, growing accustomed to their weight. We planned strategy, we planned a dance with the knight, we planned for the unexpected and the expected.

The moon waned.

I no longer drank remedies at night. I never dreamt, and I refused to dwell on what that might mean. I blamed it on the tattered state of the cards; I told myself the magic of the game was weak and worn. I never asked Phelan about his nights, but I knew he wasn’t dreaming, either. I knew the long, dreamless nights were wearing him down with worry, because I felt it too. How it made one crave warmth, to feel something other than numbing emptiness.

Sometimes, I found myself concerned for him, and how distant he was. Something had changed within him; he seemed guarded and preoccupied. I occasionally wished that I had been honest with him about my own sleep. For despite how close I felt to him now, my lack of vulnerability had built a wall between us.

Two nights before the November new moon, he came home late from visiting his mother. I was already in bed, but I heard the front door slam, followed by a crash that shook the walls.

My pulse leapt in my throat as I grabbed a robe and flew down the stairs.

I found Phelan in the throes of dismantling the library. I stood, stunned, as he viciously swiped his books off the shelves. Volume after volume was hurled to the ground, until the floor was nearly covered in exposed pages and scuffed covers. He took to his desk next, completely unaware of me. There was a whirlwind of fluttering papers and quills and shattering glass, ink spilling like dark blood.

“Phelan,” I said, but my voice was nothing more than a rough whisper.

He went to the window, where his potted plants were arranged. He took each one in his hands and hurled them against the wall. Vines and flowers went limp in clumps of soil. I dared to step closer to him.

“Phelan.”

He froze, at last hearing me. When he turned, I saw that his eyes were red rimmed, and his cheeks were flushed, from anger or from weeping, I didn’t know. But I had never seen him like this.

He released a sharp breath when he met my gaze.

I wanted to ask him what had happened. But I couldn’t find the words. They lodged in my throat as I stepped over his ruin.

“Anna,” he said. His voice was hoarse; he no longer sounded furious, only sad. “Anna . . . you should leave.”

I halted. “Leave?”

He set down the pot he had been about to toss. “Yes. Get far away from me, my family.”