But before I have to find some other excuse, my entire body decides it has had quite enough. The exhaustion I've been holding back with sheer force of will crashes down on me like a tidal wave. My legs feel like they're made of lead, and my vision blurs at the edges.
"Woah, hey!" Flynn's arms are suddenly there, steadying me as I sway. "Easy there. You've been running on fumes for days. You're about to face-plant."
My attempt at a sarcastic retort dies in my throat. A wave of dizziness washes over me, so intense I have to close my eyes. The stone floor of the crypt spins, and for a terrifying second, I'm back in the dream, falling into that infinite, crushing ocean of despair.
Flynn's grip tightens, an anchor in the storm. "Come on. Let's get you to bed before you fall down."
He's right. I'm useless like this. I can't think. I can't speak. I can barely stand. I let him guide me, my feet dragging, my mind a fog. Michael follows, a silent, worried shadow.
We get back to our small, stone-walled room. The air is cool and still. The two extra cots are still there, a silent testament to the new, smaller world we inhabit.
Flynn guides me to my own bed, and I practically collapse onto it, not even bothering to pull back the rough wool blanket. I'm asleep before my head hits the lumpy pillow.
***
There's no nightmares this time. Just a deep, dreamless void. A blessed, empty darkness. When I finally stir, it's not because of a dream or a sound, but because of a persistent, nagging sensation at the edge of my awareness.
A smell.
It's rich and savory, a combination of roasted meat, herbs, and something warm and bready. It's a smell so normal, so domestic, that it feels completely out of place in this ancient tomb. My stomach, which I thought had died and lost all taste for food, rumbles back to life with a vengeance.
I open my eyes. The room is lit by a soft, golden glow. Flynn is sitting on his bunk, a book in one hand and a steaming wooden bowl in the other. He's wearing clean clothes, and his hair is still damp from a bath. He looks... relaxed. Which is a strange look on him.
"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," he says, grinning around a mouthful of food. "Or, well, evening. Whatever. You missed lunch. And dinner. And breakfast. Again."
I push myself into a sitting position, my muscles groaning in protest. I'm still tired, but it's a different kind of tired. A deep, bone-weary exhaustion, not the frantic, wired energy of before. "How long was I out?"
"About a day," Flynn says, shrugging. "Give or take. You needed it. You were starting to look like one of those dried-up husks the Dwellers leave behind." He gestures with his spoon toward a small pot that's sitting on the floor, glowing with a soft, internal heat. "There's some stew left. Amelia found a recipe book. It's not half bad. For two-hundred-year-old leftovers."
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up. I'm a little shaky, but the worst of the dizziness is gone. I walk over to the pot and ladle some of the stew into a bowl. It's a thick, hearty concoction of what looks like dried meat, root vegetables, and some kind of grain. It smells incredible.
I take a spoonful. It's not incredible. It's edible. Warm. And right now, that's all that matters.
"You missed the excitement," Flynn continues, polishing off his bowl. "Thomson debriefed Siena. She's a hard one, that one. Didn't even cry. Just listened, nodded, and asked for a mission. Cold as ice. Got a whole group of us to go out with her on a trip."
I don't say anything. I just keep eating. The idea of Siena, the professional soldier, fitting into this fragile, broken new Order is both reassuring and terrifying. She's a real Exorcist. She knows what she's doing. But her prejudice against me is a sharp, dangerous thing.
"Watch out." Flynn says, casual as ever. "Amelia might turn into a missile when she comes back and sees you awake again. Was pretty worried." He looks down at his bowl and stirs the remaining stew in it for a moment. "We all were."
There's a short, but not awkward silence between us. Then he looks back up.
"So," he says, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "The big question. How you feeling? About the... you know. The Gloom stuff." He lowers his voice, even though we're alone. "You holding up okay?"
I stop eating and look at him. His blue eyes are earnest, free of the suspicion or fear I see in everyone else. He's not just asking about my physical state.
I don't have an answer for him.
I really don't know how I feel. It's like being handed a loaded gun and being told it's the only thing that can protect you, while everyone else is screaming at you to drop it because you're a monster for even holding it. The power is a part of me, a foul, creeping thing that feels as natural as breathing. Using it feels right. And that's the most terrifying part of all.
"I don't know," I say, the words coming out more honestly than I intended. "It's... there. I can feel it. Not here. But...any time we're not in here. I can feel it. I want to...not use it. But it's the only way."
Flynn nods slowly, processing this. "So, it's like... a muscle? You flex it, and it works. No big deal. Except the muscle is made of pure evil."
"It's not a muscle," I say, a flicker of irritation sparking through the exhaustion. "It's... an awareness. Like knowing where your hands are. I know where the Gloom is. And it moves. Like my hand." I hold up my own hand and curl it into a fist, a simple, easy motion. "That easy."
Flynn stares at my fist, then looks back at my face. "Huh." He says. He seems to be considering this seriously. "Well, that's... not as creepy as it could be, I guess. So... you can always feel it? Even right now?"
I shake my head. "Not here. The walls... the magic. It's gone. The Gloom isn't here."
"So the crypt is completely safe? From... you know." He gestures vaguely at me.
"I think so. For now." I say, but I'm not sure I believe it myself. "At least there's not enough of it around to sense?" It feels like a flimsy excuse. If the Gloom is everywhere, why would it be entirely absent in here? I don't understand how it all works. "I don't know for sure."
"Good enough for me," Flynn says with a shrug. He finishes off his stew and sets the bowl aside. "Look, Stick, I'm not going to pretend I understand any of this. But here's what I do understand. You saved our butts out there. Twice. You held off a pack of Ferals long enough for us to get away. And you did it without anyone, except me, noticing. That's pretty....smooth."
"Smooth."
Flynn shrugs. "It sounded cooler in my head." He leans back on his bunk. "My point is, I don't care if you talk to spiders or command the Gloom or have a secret third arm that shoots out bees. You're my friend. And you're on our side. That's all that matters."
The words are simple, direct, and utterly devoid of guile. It's Flynn's greatest strength and, sometimes, his greatest weakness. He sees the world in a way that's brutally, refreshingly simple. There are good guys and bad guys. And as far as he's concerned, I'm on the good guys' team.
I don't know how to respond to that. So I don't. I just finish my stew in silence.
The quiet is broken by the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Not the heavy, purposeful stride of Thomson or the military click of Siena's boots. It's a lighter, quicker pace. A familiar one.
The door to our room bursts open, and Amelia stands there, her face a mixture of relief and exasperation. She's holding a large, leather-bound book, and her hair is slightly askew, as if she's been running her hands through it in frustration.
"He's awake!" she says, as if announcing a major discovery.
"Observant as ever, 'Melia," Flynn says with a lazy grin.
She ignores him, her green eyes fixed on me. "Caden. You're okay." She rushes into the room, dropping the book on my cot with a heavy thud. "I was so worried. Flynn said you just... collapsed."
"I'm fine," I say, though my voice chooses right that moment to crack and betray me. "Just... tired."
"You were out for almost twenty-four hours," she says, her brow furrowed with concern. "If you were out any longer-"
"He wasn't, though." Flynn cuts in, swinging his legs off the bunk and landing with a thud. "So we can stop with the worrying." He looks at me, then back at Amelia. "He's eaten. He's talking. He's not going to turn into a Feral anytime soon."
Amelia shoots him a withering glare that is completely wasted on him. She turns back to me, her expression softening. "You're not turning into anything."
"....I didn't think I was." I say it automatically, but...
Maybe.
I don't...
I shake my head. No.
The thought is an unwelcome weed in the garden of my mind, but it sprouts all the same. Am I turning into a Dweller? Not physically, not yet, but... mentally? Emotionally? The ease with which I command the Gloom, the way it feels like an extension of my own body... is that the first step?
Amelia seems to read my thoughts, or at least see the shadow of them on my face. "Humans don't become Dwellers." The certainty in her voice is a fortress of its own. "It's a fundamental law. No matter how strange your abilities are, you can't turn into a Dweller. Any more than a Dweller can turn into a-"
"Human?" I finish.
I feel bad immediately, given her expression.
I can't even feel bad when Flynn throws a hard heel of bread at my head. He misses.
"Come on, Stick. I'm the one who gets to be dumb here." He says, and it's so entirely...Flynn...that I almost manage a real smile.