I stopped pretending it was a dream.
Dreams didn't leave my hands shaking hours later. They didn't cling to my skin like smoke or follow me into waking moments when I least expected them.
And they certainly didn't remember me.
I returned to the maids' house before dusk, the book pressed against my ribs, the knife tucked safely where my fingers could always find it. The air inside felt different now—charged, restless. As if the walls themselves were listening.
I sat on the cold floor and opened the book again.
Nothing happened.
No visions. No pull. No slipping between worlds.
Frustration flared.
"Why now?" I whispered, my voice echoing weakly in the emptiness. "Why show me all that and then stay silent?"
My gaze dropped to the knife.
Black. Simple. Unassuming.
My mother's guiding stone.
I didn't think.
I pressed the blade lightly against my palm.
Pain bloomed—sharp and immediate—a thin line of red welling beneath the metal. The moment blood touched the knife, the room lurched violently.
The air thickened.
The walls blurred.
I gasped as my knees hit stone that wasn't there before.
I stood inside the castle.
Not restored. Not abandoned.
Something in between.
The torches flickered uncertainly, shadows crawling unnaturally along the walls. The silence here wasn't empty—it was watchful.
My hand throbbed violently.
I looked down at it, at the blood still seeping slowly from my skin, and understanding struck me with chilling clarity.
This was the price.
Each return demanded something from me.
Blood was the key—
and the cost.
The castle felt aware of me now, as though my choice had been noticed. I took a hesitant step forward, the ache in my body deepening with every movement.
A sudden pressure bloomed in my chest—sharp, unexpected.
I staggered, gripping the stone wall.
This wasn't coming from me.
It felt like an echo.
Like someone, somewhere else, had been pulled at the same moment I was.
I didn't know who.
Only that I wasn't alone in this.
I stumbled back into the maids' house with a cry, collapsing onto the floor as the world snapped into place around me. My palm burned. My lungs struggled for air.
The book lay open beside me.
New ink stained the page.
Fresh.
As if it had just been written.
I forced myself to look.
A single line stared back at me—cruel and knowing.
Blood remembers what the mind forgets.
My breath shook.
This wasn't memory alone anymore.
It was a bond.
And whatever tied me to that place—
to Valecroft, to the knife, to Adrien—
It was no longer waiting patiently.
It was waking up.