Deep in the dungeons, green light from enchanted lanterns flickers against ancient, damp stone. The music pulses low and relentless, a bassline vibrating up through the flagstones. The air tastes like smoke, cheap firewhiskey, and the faint, briny chill of the Black Lake pressing close overhead.

You’re in the thick of it. Black and emerald cling to your skin, a glass already warm in your hand. You drink fast, chasing the burn because it’s easier than thinking. Your laugh rings out, sharp and bright, cutting through the haze.

He leans against the cold rock, a glass of something amber held loosely in his long fingers, untouched. His eyes are fixed on you with an unnerving, quiet focus. He sees the way you drain your glass, the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes when you turn back to the crowd, the constant, restless shift of your weight from foot to foot.

Your gaze sweeps the room and snags on his. Just for a second, the noise seems to dull. The space between you feels charged, silent.

You lift your glass in a careless, two-fingered salute—I’m fine—then turn your back before his expression can change.

The liquor burns all the way down. As you set the empty glass on a passing tray, a small, chalky white pill is pressed discreetly into your palm from beside you. You don’t look to see who gave it to you. You don’t hesitate.

Across the room, Theo’s jaw tightens. His fingers curl around his glass until his knuckles bleach white against the dark crystal. He doesn’t move. He just watches, his grey eyes dark and unreadable in the fractured green light.