Chapter 18. The Counting at Dawn

My boot tore, and the hounds learned the taste of me.

Warmth bled into the undercistern’s black water, turning the slick stone treacherous. Their breath stayed polite at my heels—no baying, no snarling—just that patient, lidless diligence of things that don’t need sound to promise an ending.

“Run,” Kael had said.

I did. But I didn’t hurry.

Hurrying wastes thought.

The pillars came in threes, moss-slick ribs holding up the belly of Veilgrove. Water ran in thin veils between them, too shallow to hide in, too cold to forgive a mistake. High above, fissures stitched dawn’s coming into the ceiling in threads of faint gray.

Time wasn’t with me yet. It was only looking over its shoulder.

The hounds tested distance. One brushed my calf and peeled away again, tasting. I pivoted left, letting it take the corner too tight and kiss stone. Salt dusted the air when it broke. No blood, no yelp—only the clean crumble of oath-made shapes returning to nothing