‘The eagle, ablaze,’ I say.

My father nods. ‘Burned but not broken.’

A chill wind stirs the stale air, snuffing out the candles in crowds. The darkness grows deeper. Closer. I glimpse eyes within it. Eyes and claws and teeth.

‘The darkness seeks to smother her,’ my father says. ‘You must not let it.’

More candles blow out and I raise my sword, just a little. ‘I won’t,’ I say.

‘Good. Without the eagle, the Rebirth will fail. The Conduit will only reveal itself when blood is willingly given. You need a martyr, Ahri.’

At his words, the Battle Sister catches fire. It engulfs her quickly but she does not move, or scream. She does not open her eyes, though that is where the fire burns brightest. Hottest. I feel the heat of that too, not just on my face, but on my soul. The shadows around us recoil with a hiss. They start to tear, just like the cloth did.

‘The eagle, ablaze,’ I say. ‘She is the blood willingly given. The martyr we need.’

My father nods. ‘She will herald the Rebirth,’ he says, and then he looks at me. ‘And when it unfolds, our mistakes will be unmade. What has been broken will be whole again.’

I blink, dizzied by the heat and the light and his words. ‘You are talking about Sofika.’

He nods. Smiles again. ‘You can restore her, Ahri. You just need to find the eagle.’

The fire blooms outwards then, and my vision turns to gold. I am returned to the Reverie, and to the real. To the smell of candles burning and the feeling of silk beneath my hands. I retch a thick clot of dark blood and bile onto the floor and try to catch my breath. Through the frost-covered glass I see Thul’s choir, still and silent. Dead.

‘Inquisitor.’

I look up to see Zoric offering me his hand. I get to my feet without taking it.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We can go.’

‘Good,’ Zoric says, and I can tell he means it.

‘What of this one, lord?’ Yumia asks.

She is standing over Thul, watching him with vague fascination the way one might watch an animal shake itself to death in a steel trap. The Master of Dreams looks almost pitiable, slumped there on his knees, his face a mask of blood and drool, his dark eyes wide and staring.

‘Leave him to me,’ I say. ‘I will grant him mercy.’

Yumia nods and moves aside as I unhook the peace-bond and draw my main-hand sabre from the scabbard at my belt. I take hold of Thul by his collar, but before I can make the killing cut, he fixes me with his staring eyes and speaks.

‘I saw you,’ he says softly. ‘In the space between spaces. All of those terrible things you have done in the name of dreams. I saw the blood you have shed. The lines you have crossed.’ He takes a waterlogged breath. ‘I saw what you did to Sofika Vorros.’