His eyes fluttered for a moment, then consciousness returned violently.

Gabriel dragged in a breath and choked, his lungs spasming as if they had forgotten their purpose. His body jerked upright without coordination, heart slamming hard enough to blur his vision. For several seconds he could not tell where he was or how long he had been gone.

His hands moved before thought.

They pressed against his chest, then his side, then his shoulder. He expected pain. He expected the sharp reminder of injuries that should not have healed.

Nothing answered him.

His breathing slowed as he tested himself again, more deliberately this time. His ribs expanded evenly. His shoulder rotated without resistance. He shifted his weight and stood, half-expecting his legs to fail.

They did not.

"What was that," he muttered.

The memory surfaced uninvited.

Darkness without shape. A presence that did not explain itself. "Dracamere, complete the trial."

Gabriel frowned. The words carried no warmth, no urgency, no emotion he could grasp. They did not feel like a threat. They felt like an instruction delivered without concern for whether it was followed.

He dismissed it.

The room around him came into focus.

A tavern, small and poorly kept. The ceiling sagged low, beams stained with smoke and age. Oil lamps burned weakly along the walls, their light barely cutting through the haze clinging near the rafters. Tables had been shoved aside to make room on the floor. Bedrolls lay scattered between them.

The smell settled in his nose. Old ale. Damp wood. Sweat and rot ground into the boards.

Galveston. Not the centre of the city. The slums that fed it.

Tess lay asleep near the hearth, her back braced against a bench, cloak pulled over her shoulders. One hand rested close to her sword. Even unconscious, she looked ready to wake fast.

Mera lay a few steps away, curled on her side on the bare floor. Her breathing was slow and even. One arm was tucked beneath her head, the other resting against her ribs.

Gabriel looked away.

His gaze dropped to the space beside him.

Empty.

No armour. No blade. No pack.

Memory assembled itself in fragments.

Lucius' hands closing around his swords. The sound of metal failing. Fragments scattering across frozen ground.

His swords were gone.

He crossed the room and found his clothes folded on a chair. A tunic. Trousers. Boots worn thin at the soles. A hooded robe draped over the back. Nothing else.

That was all that remained.

He dressed quickly, movements efficient despite the lingering disorientation pulling at his thoughts. The robe settled over his shoulders, light and inadequate. The absence of weight at his sides felt wrong, but he did not pause on it.

He turned toward the door.

And then the truth caught up.

Not the fight.

Not Lucius.

Hanitz.

The image was not visual. It came as a statement, heavy and final, carried by voices he remembered hearing through haze and pain.

Hanitz did not make it out. He held the gate so you could escape.

Gabriel stood still.

His heart began beating faster in his chest.

He had not seen it. Had not watched it happen. There was no memory to replay, no moment he could dissect and rewrite in his mind. Only the knowledge that the man who had dragged him out of the snow, who had stood between him and the world more times than Gabriel could count, was gone.

Dead.

Because Gabriel was there.

Because the Order came for him.

Because Lucius came for him.

His jaw tightened. His breathing remained steady.

Lucius was alive.

That fact settled cleanly.

The voice tried to surface again, quiet at the edge of his thoughts. He crushed it down without effort. Whatever it was, it could wait. It did not matter now.

Gabriel opened the door and stepped outside.

Cold air hit his face, sharp enough to clear the last remnants of fog from his head. The alley outside was narrow and slick with filth, lantern light reflecting off stagnant water pooled between stones. The harbour lay somewhere beyond the buildings, close enough that he could hear wood groaning against chain.

Horses shifted nearby.

Gabriel took three steps before a figure moved into his path.

Gilbert stood beside the horses, spear resting against his shoulder, cloak pulled tight. He had positioned himself where he could see both the tavern door and the street. His eyes were already on Gabriel.

"You're awake," Gilbert said.

Gabriel did not answer. He angled toward the street.

Gilbert stepped sideways and blocked him.

"Move," Gabriel said.

"You're leaving," Gilbert replied.

"Yes."

"You don't have anything."

"I'll get it."

Gilbert's eyes flicked to the robe, the empty belt, the lack of steel. "You're going after him."

Gabriel stopped.

"That's not a question," Gilbert continued. "You're going for revenge."

"Yes."

The word came flat and final.

Gilbert tightened his grip on the spear. "You won't make it far like this."

"Move."

Gilbert did not.

"If you keep walking," he said, "I wake the others."

Gabriel looked past him toward the tavern door. It remained shut. Tess and Mera slept inside. Ennu and Adan would be nearby, taking turns watching the streets. If they were alarmed, he would struggle to get away.

"You can't stop me," Gabriel said.

"No," Gilbert agreed. "But they can."

Silence stretched between them.

"You leave alone," Gilbert said, "and you die. The you get no revenge."

Gabriel's hands curled slowly at his sides.

"I don't care."

"I know," Gilbert replied.

Gabriel stepped closer. "Last chance. Move."

Gilbert met his gaze. "Take me with you. Or I wake them."

The choice settled instantly.

Gabriel gave a single nod.

Gilbert exhaled once and fell in beside him.

Gabriel turned toward the street, boots striking stone with purpose. The slums of Galveston stretched ahead, narrow and foul, filled with people who would not remember his name. That did not matter.

Lucius Tudon was alive.

Hanitz was dead.

And Gabriel would not wait again.

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