Archer woke gasping for air in the dark hours of the morning, a knife to his throat. As he sat up, the sharp edge cut into his flesh. He panicked, kicking out with his feet to get away. He couldn't see anything, so he reached out for whatever he could find—an arm, a leg, a weapon. He would not die by some cowardly night assailant. He would not.

As he scrambled to get his bearings, his fingers closed around the joints of a wrist. He snapped it as hard as he could, but the bone didn't break. Instead, the knife came back to bite his throat again.

He kicked again, but the blankets were wrapped around his torso, limiting his movement. He reached too far for his pistol on the nightstand and came crashing down onto the floor, slamming his face into the bedframe. He recovered quickly, eyes beginning to adjust to the moonlight. He twisted around on the floor, his elbow connecting with something that felt like a jaw.

Terror clawed in his stomach. He knew these moves, this rapid routine. He knew this person. He reached for the pistol again, but one of his pillows had been torn in the scramble and now the feathers rained down around him, obscuring his vision. When he finally found it, it was kicked into the wall, and the knife was back on his throat, tighter than before. Unbeatable.

"Tell me where it is."

Archer stilled, lifting his hands in surrender.

The feathers fell silently to the ground. The moonlight streamed eerily through the window, illuminating the strewn covers and sheets.

"Novari," he whispered to the darkness.

The room was quiet again, the name drifting out and away with no reply for a moment. The feathers finally settled.

"The map," she murmured back. "That's all I want."

Archer cut away her elbow, ducking under the knife. He spun around to face her, taking a few steps back until his shoulder blades hit the wall.

There she was, face stony and expressionless. The pale light illuminated those pretty features, the amber eyes.

"The map," she said, knife still curled in her fingers.

Archer took a step closer, examining her. A vision? Another dream?

"Reality," she corrected.

He watched her very carefully, but she wouldn't dissolve away into nothing. He lifted his fingers out to touch her shoulder, and she stepped back, out of his reach.

He looked at her, then tried again. She didn't move this time, just observed as he touched her shoulder, her collarbone. He frowned, sliding his thumb under a necklace. His necklace, the Orphano chain.

"It's you," he said.

"Yes." Her head tilted away from him, her eyes cautionary.

"But—"

"Under the spires, Kingsley," she interrupted. "I told you."

Archer blinked. Had she? What did that even mean? She hadn't died in that throne room? She was here, in his room? In reality.

"I need the map," she repeated. "Give it to me now, and you'll never see me again."

He reached for her hair, sifting through it in his fingers. That felt real. It was the right shade of black, just the right length. He reached for her fingers—to check her tattoos, to look for signs of a fraud—but she took a step back again.

His gaze was expectant for proof, so she lifted the hem of her shirt. With the moonlight casting shadows over her, he could see what she intended to show; where there should've been nothing but tanned skin and lithe muscle, there was a long, white scar.

Archer glanced at her face once more to see if she'd let him, then knelt down in front of her. He lifted his fingers and traced the scar, the perfect size, in the perfect spot.

"Is this a bad dream for you, Kingsley?" she asked. "Or a good one?"

He looked up, thumb skirting around the edge of the injury. He held her beautiful, heartbroken gaze. A bad one, of course. Silta's waking mind could despise him for this scar. She would never forgive him for it, and that was far worse than whatever hell he'd been through to move on.

He trailed up to her waist. Just tendons and nerves like anyone else. "I don't know," he told her. There was very little he was sure about in this life.

She knelt down to meet him, her ghostly fingers settling behind his neck, her thumb curling over his jaw. The moonlight bounced and twirled off the waves outside, making her look impossibly beautiful.

But there was something there, in her eyes. Despite her lucid state, her graceful movements, there was something lurking deep in that golden colour. It wasn't pain or sorrow; it was something listless, something original to her features.

"There's a very peculiar feeling, Kingsley," she told him, kneeling there on the floor of his quarters. "It creeps in after the initial fight, after the fury of what's happened starts to fade. Everyone believes they'll crawl and claw until the very end, but it's not as easy as it seems. When you're truly about to die, willpower slips from your fingers like sand. How simple would it be to just close your eyes, to just drift off here in the freezing water?"

She frowned, the expression foreign on her. She laid the knife down on the ground beside them, running her other fingers down his thigh, resting on his knee. This was no dream, no vision. He could never recreate that tone of voice, her style of words.

"You would think it's because of the physical pain," she said. "The severed skin, the blood, the bruises from hurling yourself into concrete water. You would think those things are what holds you back from wanting to live, but they aren't. Nerves, muscles, tendons—tear and shred them a thousand times over, Kingsley. It's nothing compared to what you did to my soul."

Archer closed his eyes. What had he wanted? Had he wanted her to feign nonchalance in this re-entrance, to pretend it didn't hurt her? He would've preferred it to this.

"I know you would've," she replied. "I'll give you that tomorrow. Tonight, love, you get to see what you've done."

He felt his eyes stinging. He swallowed, raising his chin to the sky. So it was real? She was here? It was real. She was here. What did that mean? It meant screaming, more fights, more power struggles, more torture.

"I can't live like this," he breathed. Tears pooled in his eyes as he let his hand fall to the floor. "I don't want to—" He broke off, blinking rapidly. What was the word? What did he not want to do anymore?

"Live," he finished. And he didn't. Not here, not now, with his ghosts come alive.

She knew what he'd do a second before he reached for the knife. She could read it in his eyes, but she was not fast enough this time. He took it from the floor and brought it to his throat, stumbling away from her until his back hit the wall.

She went completely still, hands lifted at her sides. Her mouth parted a little, but she said nothing for a moment. Then, as tears finally began to stream down his cheeks, she reached out with her hand.

"Give me the knife, Kingsley," she whispered.

"I can't," he told her, shaking his head. "I can't do this anymore, Novari. I want out of this endless circle."

"Love," she said, leaning closer, hand still out, "this is not how it ends."

"I know how it ends," Archer insisted, pushing harder on the blade. "You run circles around me in revenge, killing everyone I consider a friend. You lead me on, make me think the hell is over, and then you throw it back in my face. It goes on forever and ever until you finally decide to put me out of my misery. I'll do it first." He truly believed nothing bad would happen if he put the right amount of pressure on this blade. He believed he'd go somewhere better than here.

Her hand hovered closer to the knife, her eyes never leaving his. "Archer, love," she said. "You owe me this."

"Owe you what?" he hissed, tasting the salt of his own tears.

Her fingers touched the hilt of the knife, just barely. "Whatever it is I want with you."

He shook his head. He wanted to die; he wanted to live. He wanted to escape whatever torture she had planned; he wanted to revel in whatever moments he got with her. It was all some fragile line he couldn't walk in this state.

In his mere moment of consideration, she went for his wrist, twisting it until the knife clattered on the ground. She reached over to keep him still as she kicked it away, breath hot on his face.

He threw his head back against the wall, the sound loud and glaring. Pain radiated from his skull, but he didn't mind. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his body a blend of a thousand things. He shook his head and slammed it back against the wall again.

"Stop, love," she murmured, both hands tight to his face to make him still. "It won't be as bad as you think it will be."

Archer lifted his chin to look at her. She looked so real—the curve of her jaw, the curl of her lashes. The way every strand of hair was accounted for. She looked so real. She looked like her.

"I am her, Kingsley," she said.

Archer reached out to her fingers, threading them through his. He gazed at them in wonder, at the feeling of her skin, those light callouses. He brought her hand to his face and touched the back of her hand to his lips. Salt, like the ocean.

She brought her chin down, then looked him in the eye.

Archer wondered what she saw. If she was proud that she'd finally turned him into Bardarian—a lovestruck, suicidal man of power whose only consolation was the sound of her voice. Did she like this complacency, or did she hate the weakness?

She ran a thumb over his jaw. "I miss you, Kingsley," she whispered.

Had she had some agenda here? Hadn't she been asking for something? Didn't her appearance here mean he understood this game finally? He didn't care. It was her. He simply closed his eyes and imagined what it might be like in this world now that she was back. Maybe she'd forgive him. Maybe he could live again.

He thought he'd hear her scoff, listen to her answer his thoughts with some sly, witty insult. Instead, her hands rested on his shoulders for a few more moments, then she slowly repositioned next to him, back against the wall.

He reached a hand out to touch her, to make sure she was still there beyond his closed lids, and she rested her elegant fingers on his wrist in response. He felt the weight of her head on his shoulder, and he didn't dare to move once more.

He slept in darkness, for there was nothing left to dream.

*

The sun was golden and sharp, the bedsheets undisturbed around him. There was no knife on the floor, no feathers exploded across the room or any strewn blankets.

He sat up, working a crick out of his neck. She hadn't been here, of course. That was just his mind dreaming up elaborate nightmares to wake him up. She was alive, by the implications of the words he'd long ago stuffed down, but she had not been here. Of course not. Logic did not support it. No feathers, not a single one.

He stepped into his boots, pushing back his hair. He carefully opened the door to his quarters, expecting her to be in his chair, twirling to give him a luscious grin. It was empty.

But he could taste the salt in his mouth from where he'd pressed her hand to his lips. He could smell it in the air. There's an ocean outside, he told himself. It's not her.

He took a step into the quarters. The morning was misty through the bay windows, the sun rising carefully. It had only been hours since Archer had been submerged in water in that cave. There was no logical timeline for her to have been here.

But he tasted her in the air, that stinging sensation. He glanced back into his room, crouching down to look under the bed. Not a single feather, no missing pillows. He walked slowly into the captain's quarters, the ship still and quiet. He passed by a mirror on the wall and halted immediately.

There, in his reflection, was the slight tinge of a bruise on his forehead. Nearly unnoticeable, but there all the same. He drew closer, lifting a hand to touch it. Right there, in the perfect spot, where he'd slammed his head on the nightstand.

He spun around, heart pounding. Was she still here? He went for the door to the balcony, throwing it open, hand on his pistol.

No one. Not in the miles of open sea, and not on the deck.

Fingers shaking, Archer took the stairs as quickly as he could, skipping the last one and knocking as loudly as possible on the first mate's door. When no one immediately answered, he tossed it open.

Lyra bolted upright in her bed, her eyes darting. "Kingsley? It's beyond early."

"She's alive," Archer said, knowing how delusional it sounded. He leaned over Lyra, getting a look out her window. Nothing but empty ocean.

Lyra lifted a hand to rub her eyes. "If you're on about her again, Archer, I swear to the angels—"

"She's alive. She was on this ship, in my room. I hit my head on the nightstand and there's a bruise now—"

Lyra held up a hand to cut him off. "She's dead Archer. I'm so tired of her weaseling her way back into my life."

"I missed something. I told you, she wasn't dead when I left."

"You told me you put a knife through her," Lyra said, her voice irritated.

"I did, but—"

"So you put a knife through her, and then you left her in the throne room with minutes to spare. I watched the entrance to the Kingsland the whole time. No one else came out."

"She didn't come out that way!"

Lyra rolled her eyes. "There's no other way out, Archer. Everyone knows that."

"She had her own way out. Her and her mother—"

Lyra groaned, throwing her body back on her bed. "You're insane, Archer. She's dead. If she were alive, she'd have killed both of us months ago."

"Of course she wouldn't have. It makes perfect sense; she wants to torment us, make an entrance, play her games as long as possible," he insisted.

"Honestly, Archer. You sound mad. Go to sleep."

"Lyra—"

"Look," Lyra said to him, allowing her gaze to meet his finally. "If you want to discuss this insane topic at a more reasonable hour, I will happily oblige."

Archer felt alive with terror or confusion or something. There was no way he was 'discussing this at a more reasonable hour'. "Lyra—" he started.

"Shh, Archer. Please. In the morning."

Archer was about to remind her that it was morning, and this was the most important thing to discuss, but he heard a soft thump from upstairs.

"Did you hear that?" He quickly cut his gaze to the ceiling.

"No." Lyra's voice was muffled against her pillow.

He turned back out the door, not bothering to close it behind him. He took the stairs two at a time, all the more expectant to see her this time.

Empty. No one there, but something felt different. It felt changed, somehow.

He took a long breath in, then a long one out. He tried to calm himself down. Perhaps he'd hit his head on the nightstand in a dream. Maybe Silta had never told him about a way out of the Kingsland other than the gate. Was he truly crazy? Was he really out of his mind?

He took another few breaths. Something felt different in the captain's quarters, but he was just tired. There were no feathers in his room. She couldn't have possibly spent a tedious amount of time picking up every feather and replacing his pillow. Of course not.

Archer settled into his chair. He glanced at the secret compartment, holding the map. It was fine, it was all fine. He needed a moment to breathe. Just a moment. He wouldn't fall asleep again, not with his raging heartbeat. He would sit here, thinking, until he figured out what was going on.

But it only took a moment for sleep to get its way once more.