“But then the creature’s eyes are on me, bright and ravenous. It is one of the things. One of the shadows from the night of the raid. I’m going crazy. Bleeding, bat crazy. I close my eyes, willing the thing to disappear. When it doesn’t, I swat at it with trembling hands. “Laia . . . ” “Go away. You’re not real.” The thing inches close. Don’t scream, Laia, I tell myself, biting down hard on my lip. Don’t scream. “Your brother suffers, Laia.” Each of the creature’s words is deliberate, as if it wants to make sure I don’t miss a single one. “The Martials pull pain from him slowly and with relish.” “No. You’re in my head.” The creature’s laugh is like breaking glass. “I’m real as death, little Laia. Real as shattered bones and traitorous sisters and hateful Masks.” “You’re an illusion. You’re my . . . my guilt.” I grab Mother’s armlet. The shadow flashes its predator’s grin, and now it’s only a foot away. But then the wagon comes to a stop, and the creature gives me a last malevolent look before disappearing with a dissatisfied hiss. Seconds later, the wagon door swings open, and the forbidding walls of Blackcliff are before me, their oppressive weight driving the hallucination from my mind.”