I stared at the tooth in Cassandra's palm for a long time.
It wasn't human. Too long. Too curved. But it wasn't beast either. The texture reminded me of old ivory soaked in blood for centuries, with faint glyphs forming naturally along the enamel—sigils older than runes.
"You're sure it wasn't just a dream?" I asked.
Cassandra looked up, and for a moment, the shadows around her face didn't match the lantern light. They curled against the flame.
"I don't dream," she said softly. "I remember."
She slid the tooth back into her coat and took a step closer.
"I was in a hall made of roots. And the man with the broken crown was standing beside a throne made of mouths."
"Mouths," I repeated.
"They whispered my name," she said. "But not the one I go by here. They whispered the other one. The one I buried."
I didn't press further.
Some truths shouldn't be unearthed until you're ready to bleed for them.
Later That Night
