"Another one?" Mireen's voice comes softly through the darkness. So much for not waking her.

"Sorry," I whisper.

“Don’t be sorry.” She sits up, then pauses, pointing to something near her bed. "And promise you won’t freak out, but I think we have a roommate." She indicates tiny footprints in spilled powder by the wall. "I've been leaving it crumbs. Figured if it's survived this long at Confluence, it deserves a medal. Or at least dinner."

I notice the prints and shake my head ruefully. “You’re luring rats into our room. On purpose?”

“Singular. Not plural. And yes. Imagine how scary this place must be as a rat. He deserves someone who will love and look after him.”

I shake my head, smiling. “If it bites me, I’m kicking him out.”

Mireen folds her arms. “If he bites you twice. You’ve got to give him a chance to get his bearings.” I can already see how her body is growing more lean and muscular with our daily training regime through her thin night clothes. My own physique is changing, too. The soft places on my body are hardening every day, what fat I had melting away to reveal lean muscle. I’m even starting to gain some confidence in the sparring ring—a faint belief that I can stop someone from killing me if they try.

“So…” she leans forward, legs crossed on the bed. "What do you see? In the dreams?"

I hesitate. Dreams are private things—especially here, where any weakness can be exploited. But this is Mireen. She even admitted when Malakai tried to "recruit" her for his growing team of those he calls his elites. Mireen is far more talented than most when it comes to channeling, which is what earned her the invite.

Obviously, she turned him down, even though the temptation of not having to watch her back for him and his elites must have been immense. She also told me about it right away, confirming what I already knew. I can trust Mireen with my life.

"I see water," I say, shivering at the memory that still burns vivid in my mind's eye. "Darkness. Something... watching me." I don't mention how that feeling of being watched persists even after I wake. I keep that to myself, not because I don't trust her, but because speaking it aloud would make it feel more real.

More terrifying.

She's quiet for a moment. "My grandfather used to say dreams are messages. From the gods, maybe, or from parts of ourselves we don't understand."

"Well, I wish this particular messenger would shut up," I mutter, making her laugh softly.

There's more still I don't dare say aloud—like the voice I hear beneath the water, whispering words I’m beginning to understand. About how each night, I sink deeper, getting closer to whatever waits in those depths. How I'm beginning to think it's looking for me specifically.