Lucien’s laugh is chilly enough to shatter the air. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Malachite doesn’t budge from his stance, and all my organs settle in the bottom of me like iron ingots. Lucien gives up on him and looks over at Fione, her frown grim.

“Fione?” the prince asks, as if begging her to contradict his bodyguard.

She lets out a sigh. “I can’t lie to you, Lucien. It’s a possibility.”

Lucien’s dark eyes snap to me, and I try a smile. The memory of the dream, that ominous fear I had of Varia’s touch—

“They’re right, Lucien. It’s…it might be a thing. And if it is, then I’m a threat to you—”

“You’re not,” he argues instantly. “You never will be.”

“I’ve always been,” I say softly.

“I know—” He clenches his working fist, reflection warbling in the valkerax blood puddle he stands in. “I know you’d never hurt me. Magic or not, you’re strong. Stronger than anything or anyone I know. You’d never succumb to something like that. Gods—you made Weeping real. You did it all on your own. If that isn’t—if that isn’t proof…”

I walk hesitantly up to his side, taking his limp hand in mine. His whole body’s shaking enough to vibrate his inactive fingers, to make the bones and tendons move when they clearly can’t anymore. The old pain comes welling up like ink, like mud. I’m a threat.

we are his death in the night.

The possibility is there, even if my mind is unwilling to consider it. Even if my mind isn’t willing to turn on my friends, the hunger is. I’ve felt firsthand how strong the Bone Tree is. I’ve seen it—dug deep in the marrow of Evlorasin’s very being. I won’t have a choice.

I’m not a valkerax. But I have six eyes when I Weep. I can see Varia in my dreams. I can see through her eyes, like we’re one. Because she has the Bone Tree in her. And the only creatures in Arathess tied to that tree are the valkerax. I don’t know what I am, anymore. But I know—sadly—that it’s not human. It’s maybe not even pure Heartless. Fione’s words at the fire the other night ring in my empty chest.

Whatever I am, however I’m shaped, whatever parts of me are here or not here, I’m still me.

“Whatever I am, Lucien,” I start softly. “Whatever strength I have, I’m going to use it to stop Varia.”

His onyx eyes flash—not quite betrayed, but something deeper than that. His hand darts to his breast pocket, pulling out the sack stitched with the word Heart. My real heart.

“Hold still,” he says, terse. “I’m going to put it back.”

“Luc—” Malachite starts.