Inside Merlin's room, the air still clung to his skin—not cold, not warm, but aware. Whatever the fragment was, it left an imprint, a faint echo in his mana core that pulsed like ghostly aftershock.
Shade finally unclenched enough to flutter to the bedpost, feathers puffed in indignation.
Merlin rubbed his eyes once, realizing only then that his hands were shaking. Not from fear—not exactly. More like the way a cliff shakes after a long, heavy rock finally dislodges.
Something fundamental had shifted.
And it had looked at him as if—
No. He pushed the thought aside.
A knock sounded.
Soft.
Too soft.
Not Elara's knock—hers was decisive, sharp, like she wanted the door to know she could break it if needed.
Not Nathan's—he knocked like he expected someone inside to already be dying.
Not any student.
Something in him knew before the voice came.
"Merlin," Morgana said quietly through the door, "open it."
Shade dove under the blanket.
