Episode Thirty – The Weight of Dawn.

I did not sleep.

That wasn’t unusual.

What was unusual was that I wanted to.

I sat in the darkened suite long after the others settled into uneasy silence. Patience eventually curled beneath a throw blanket on the sofa, her half-eaten Swedish Fish scattered around her like tiny red casualties. Sterling took the armchair nearest the door, insisting he was “keeping watch,” which sounded noble until he began snoring softly an hour later.

Kendrick remained awake with me.

He stood by the window, looking out over the snow-covered grounds of Merrick’s estate, his reflection faint in the glass.

Neither of us spoke for a long time.

Words seemed too fragile for whatever was unfolding beneath this house.

Finally, he turned.

“You’re afraid.”

It wasn’t a question.

I stared into the untouched glass of blood in my hands.

“Yes.”

Kendrick crossed the room and sat beside me.

“That’s not something I hear from you often.”

“I generally prefer denial.”

A small smile touched his mouth.

“One of your more enduring qualities.”

I leaned back and closed my eyes.

“For two hundred years, I believed one story.”

“That Damian died.”

“Yes.”

“And now?”

I opened my eyes.

“Now I’m not sure what happened.”

Kendrick rested his forearms on his knees, his posture relaxed, but his attention fixed entirely on me.

“Then maybe it’s time you told me.”

I let out a slow breath.

Outside, snow drifted past the windows in thick white sheets.

Inside, the house listened.

“I never told anyone what really happened that night,” I said.

Kendrick was quiet.

Waiting.

Patient.

That alone made me want to tell him.

“Alard and I planned everything carefully,” I said. “Damian had grown reckless. He was killing too openly. Too often. Alard believed his father would destroy all of us if he stayed in power.”

Kendrick nodded once.

“That part I knew.”

I turned the glass in my hands.

“What no one knew was that I wasn’t alone.”

Kendrick’s eyes narrowed.

“The second person.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

I hesitated.

Because once spoken, her name would change everything.

“Gandara.”

Kendrick sat back.

The surprise on his face was genuine.

“The witch.”

“The same.”

I looked toward the darkened hallway beyond our suite.

“She and I were… close, once.”

“Close enough to kill an ancient.”

“Yes.”

Kendrick absorbed that in silence.

I continued.

“We entered Damian’s room just before dawn. He was asleep. Or appeared to be. I distracted him. Gandara cast something over the room—a binding, I think. I never understood exactly what she did.”

My voice had gone quieter now, as if speaking too loudly might summon the memory itself.

“I cut off his head.”

Kendrick said nothing.

The image rose before me with terrible clarity.

The blade.

The blood.

The certainty.

And then—

“I heard him laugh.”

Kendrick went very still.

“What?”

I met his gaze.

“After his head hit the floor.”

The words hung between us like smoke.

“I thought it was shock,” I said. “I thought I imagined it. Gandara told me it was done. She insisted we leave immediately.”

“And you believed her.”

“I wanted to.”

Silence settled over us again.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

Kendrick’s voice was almost a whisper.

“You think Gandara knew.”

“Yes.”

“And never told you.”

I looked away.

“That’s the part I can’t decide whether to forgive.”

A soft knock sounded at the door.

Three measured taps.

Not urgent.

Not hesitant.

I knew who it was before Sterling jerked awake and reached for the handle.

Merrick stood in the hall.

Fully dressed.

Perfectly composed.

As if he’d been waiting for this moment all night.

“May I come in?” he asked.

Patience groaned from the sofa without opening her eyes.

“Does no one in this house understand boundaries?”

I stood.

“Come in.”

Merrick entered alone.

No Raven this time.

That felt deliberate.

His gaze moved briefly around the room, taking in Kendrick beside me, Sterling near the door, Patience cocooned in blankets.

Then he looked at me.

“It spoke to you.”

Not a question.

I set my glass aside.

“Not in words.”

“That may be for the best.”

Kendrick stepped forward.

“How much do you know?”

Merrick clasped his hands behind his back.

“Less than I’d like.”

“Convenient,” Sterling muttered.

Merrick ignored him.

I folded my arms.

“I remembered something.”

That got his attention.

“What?”

I hesitated.

Then decided.

If we were going to survive this, secrets had to start moving.

“I wasn’t alone when Damian fell.”

Merrick’s expression did not change.

But the air in the room did.

“Who was with you?” he asked.

“Gandara Temple.”

Sterling swore softly.

Patience sat up. “Wait—the witch with the bird?”

“The same,” I said.

Merrick nodded slowly.

“I suspected there was a second participant.”

“Then why didn’t you ask her?”

A shadow passed across his face.

“I did.”

That made me straighten.

“And?”

“She declined to answer.”

Of course she did.

I should have known.

Merrick stepped closer.

“What else did you remember?”

The room seemed to contract around us.

Kendrick was watching me.

Sterling had gone still.

Patience clutched her blanket like armor.

And I understood, with sudden certainty, that whatever I said next would shape everything that followed.

I looked directly at Merrick.

“I don’t think Damian died the way we believed.”

Merrick exhaled slowly.

Not surprise.

Confirmation.

He had expected this.

Perhaps hoped for it.

“And now?” he asked.

I thought of the room beneath the house.

The presence.

The recognition.

The impossible familiarity.

Now.

What a dangerous word.

“I think,” I said carefully, “that whatever remains of him wants me to remember the truth.”

Merrick held my gaze.

“And when you do?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t know.”

That was honest.

Terrifyingly so.

Merrick inclined his head.

“Then we proceed carefully.”

Sterling folded his arms.

“Meaning?”

Merrick looked toward the floor, as though he could see through the foundations to whatever waited below.

“Meaning,” he said quietly, “we determine whether we are dealing with a memory…”

He lifted his eyes to mine.

“…or a return.”

The words settled over us like the first gray light before dawn.

Cold.

Inevitable.

And impossible to ignore.

Somewhere deep within the house, something shifted.

Not violently.

Not urgently.

But with unmistakable intent.

I felt it like a pulse beneath the floorboards.

Aware.

Listening.

Waiting.

Not for blood.

Not for revenge.

For truth.

And for the first time since this began, I understood that the most dangerous thing in this house was not what we had awakened.

It was what I was finally beginning to remember.