For a long time, Arden could hear nothing but the pounding of his heartbeat and the faint, dying hum of the House behind them. The corridors had finally stopped shifting—no more stretching walls or breathing ceilings, no more shadows creeping down from the corners. Only silence now. Silence thick enough to feel with his fingertips.
Seris slowed her pace and raised the lantern. The flame within it was small, trembling, as if it too had been running.
"We're safe," she whispered. "For a moment."
Arden leaned against the nearest wall. His breath came in uneven pulls—half from exhaustion, half from fear he wasn't ready to acknowledge. Seris kept her eyes ahead, her expression pulled tight and unreadable.
"What was that voice?" Arden said, once he could breathe again. "The one calling my name?"
Seris didn't answer at first. "You shouldn't listen when it calls."
"That's not an answer."
She turned her head slightly, not enough for him to see her eyes. "The House… uses voices. It imitates people you once loved."
Arden's chest tightened. "So that wasn't real?"
"Real isn't the right word," Seris murmured. "It was someone from another life. Someone the House kept. Someone it thinks you miss."
The chill running down Arden's spine had nothing to do with the cold.
"You're telling me I've loved other people before?"
Her grip tightened around the lantern. "You lived hundreds of lives, Arden. Not all of them were with me."
That hurt more than he expected.
He didn't know why. He barely knew Seris—yet everything in him leaned toward her as if drawn by some instinct he didn't understand.
"And you?" he asked quietly. "Did you love me… in all those lives?"
Seris inhaled sharply.
"No," she whispered. "Not in all of them."
Something in her voice—pain wrapped in honesty—cut through him deeper than any memory had.
"I'm sorry," he said, not knowing why.
Seris shook her head and started walking again. "Don't be sorry. The fault isn't yours."
They moved through a long corridor that curved downward. The walls here looked different—smoother, cleaner, almost untouched. The air warmed by a few degrees, easing the tension in Arden's shoulders.
Then the hallway opened onto a balcony.
Arden stopped in awe.
Below them stretched a vast, spiraling tower. Hundreds—no, thousands—of lanterns floated in careful orbit, each one glowing with a different hue. They drifted like stars caught in slow motion, weaving intricate circles through the air.
"This is the Lantern Chamber," Seris said softly. "Every lantern is a memory—someone in the House who remembers you."
Arden stepped to the railing. The lanterns were beautiful from afar, but as his eyes scanned them, he noticed their differences.
Some shone brightly, flames steady and strong.
Others flickered dimly, as if struggling to stay lit.
A few glowed with angry red or ghostly blue.
And some—far too many—had gone completely dark.
His voice felt small. "Why do some flicker?"
"Because the people connected to those lanterns are forgetting you," Seris said. "Or because you are forgetting them."
He gripped the railing until his knuckles whitened.
"And the bright ones?" he asked, forcing his voice to steady. "Who remembers me that clearly?"
Seris hesitated.
Then she extended an arm.
Arden followed her gaze.
Near the very top of the chamber floated a lantern brighter than all the others—golden, warm, steady like a small sun.
It pulsed gently in the air, sending ripples through the lanterns around it.
Arden's breath caught. "Who does that one belong to?"
Seris looked away.
"Seris," he said softly. "Whose lantern is that?"
Her shoulders stiffened. She didn't answer.
And then it hit him.
"It's yours," he whispered.
Seris's eyes lowered to the floor. "Yes."
"You remember me the most," he said softly.
She didn't speak.
He stepped toward her. "You remember me more than you've told me."
Finally, she looked at him—and the pain in her eyes nearly stopped his heart.
"I remember too much," she said quietly. "And every time I do, the House tries to kill me."
Arden felt the ground tilt beneath him.
"What?"
Seris turned toward the glowing tower of lanterns, her silhouette outlined in gold light.
"The House hates when I remember you. It punishes me for it. The brighter my lantern burns, the harsher the consequences."
Arden moved closer without thinking. "Then why remember me at all?"
Seris exhaled a shaky breath. "Because I can't not remember you."
Arden felt something warm and terrifying bloom in his chest.
He opened his mouth to speak—
—but the golden lantern flickered.
Just once.
Seris went utterly still.
"No," she whispered. "Not now."
"What does that mean?" Arden demanded.
"It means…" Her throat worked. "Someone who remembered you clearly is forgetting. Or worse… you're forgetting them."
Arden pressed a hand to his forehead. A sharp, sudden pain stabbed behind his eyes. He staggered backward, gripping the railing to keep from collapsing.
"Arden!" Seris rushed to him, catching his shoulder. "Focus on me. Look at me!"
"I'm fine," he lied through clenched teeth.
He wasn't.
Flashes of images—faces, hands, voices—none belonging to him yet all somehow familiar—flickered through his mind like sparks in the dark.
"I can't… I can't hold onto them," he breathed.
"Don't try," Seris urged. Her hands came up to frame his face, grounding him in her warmth, her steadiness. "Just stay here. Stay with me."
His vision blurred at the edges.
The golden lantern flickered again.
Arden gasped. "It hurts—"
"Breathe," Seris said, pressing her forehead gently to his. "Follow my voice."
The pain sharpened—then collapsed inward, leaving him dizzy.
He clung to her hands.
"Seris…"
The golden lantern went out.
Just like that.
Darkness swallowed it.
Seris flinched as if stabbed.
"No…" she whispered. "Arden, no."
"What does it mean?" he asked, terrified.
"It means something is unraveling inside you," she breathed. "Something the House doesn't want restored."
Before he could respond, the entire chamber trembled.
A low, cold whisper slid through the air, curling past his ear like a strand of poisoned silk:
"Your time is nearly gone…"
Seris shoved him behind her, lantern raised.
"Stay back!" she shouted into the darkness.
The railing cracked under a sudden force. Lanterns flickered violently overhead. A cold wind spiraled upward, tugging at Arden's coat.
He grabbed Seris's arm. "We have to leave—now!"
She nodded, but her eyes remained fixed on the darkness rising below.
"This place isn't safe anymore," she whispered.
As they turned to run, the whispered voice spoke again—closer, colder, unmistakable:
"You cannot save him, Seris."
Arden felt the words tighten around his ribcage like chains.
Seris pulled him away from the balcony, lantern flaring bright enough to cut a path through the dark.
They ran.
The House stirred like a waking beast behind them.
And Arden—barely able to breathe—felt something terrible and familiar rising inside him.
Something the House wanted.
Something hungry.