Phosyne’s throat is very dry. She is thinking of sinking into stone. Of lighting candles with blood. Of bewitching a whole castle into feasting upon its own.

She has never questioned where her power comes from—only where the knowledge does.

The Lady smiles. It is gentle. She holds out both hands.

Phosyne struggles not to take them.

“Give me your name, little mouse,” She murmurs, “and I will give you your answer.”

And for one blistering, parched moment, Phosyne wants to.

But then she thinks of how the Lady says Ser Voyne’s name: with ownership. She would do the same with Phosyne’s. There’s a power in it, a worth, or else She would not be asking for it.

The Lady notes her hesitation. Steps closer. Their audience holds its breath, waiting to see what Phosyne will do.

“Give me your name, and the nightmare will end.”

Phosyne lifts her chin. Pulls her hands into fists at her sides.

“What do you have to gain from this?” she asks. “You have every soul in this castle as it stands. Surely you have everything you desire.”

“Not everything. And not every soul.”

“So you want mine.”

The Lady doesn’t deny it.

This does not match her understanding of the situation. Phosyne is not important—or, at least, she was not important. The Lady and Her saints have come to devour this castle, and Phosyne is only a curiosity, an unexpected snare in their plan. But then she thinks of the feast, of being laid like an offering at the Lady’s feet, and how delighted the Lady had been to see her. How quickly She’d become fascinated.

Her world is getting smaller. Her breathing is growing faster, shallower, panic threatening to pull her under completely. She staggers away from the Lady, mind racing, eyes darting around the room. She is surrounded on all sides. They shift and spark in her periphery, flat white faces getting closer, and they have teeth, they have so many teeth, and she has teeth too, she could tear them all to pieces—

No. No, she has to get out.

She will go to Ser Voyne, wherever she is, and throw herself on her mercy. Beg understanding. Ask for a plan, any plan, because they are running out of time and have no more room for games.

She is in the doorway when the Lady’s next words strike.

“You will not find your knight out there, little mouse.”

Phosyne halts. The skin along her spine crawls. Her throat aches. “What have you done with her?” she asks, fighting to keep her tone even.

“Nothing at all. But your Ser Voyne is dead.”

The pain in her throat intensifies. It is like a blade cutting through flesh and gristle. Phosyne sways on her feet from it, from the horror in her gut and the answering anger that flares to life beneath it.

Treila is gone. Voyne is gone.