Not yet. — Corvin pokes the fire. — You're still drunk."

"Always."

"Thought so."

Sera sits down across from him. Red eyes. Unblinking.

"How do you know about the door?"

"I've been around. — He pokes the fire. — Longer than you. Longer than the port. Longer than the war. I know doors. I know what's behind them. And I know what happens when they open."

He looks at me. Pale eyes. Almost white.

"You opened it. Now something's coming through. And it's not going to stop until it's finished."

"Finished what?"

He pokes the fire. Slow. Steady.

"The war. Or the door. Depends on who's asking."

The woman with the scar steps forward. "We need shelter. Food. Rest."

Corvin doesn't look at her. "You need more than that. — He points the poker at the walls. — This tower's old. But it's defensible. One door. Thick walls. Good sightlines. You can stay. But not for free."

"What do you want?" Sera asks.

"Answers. — He looks at me. — When the door opened. What came through?"

I don't answer.

"Something did. — He pokes the fire. — I felt it. Three days ago. The ground shook. The salt moved. The door scratched. And then — quiet. Too quiet. Like it was holding its breath."

"It was," I say. "It was waiting for me."

Corvin nods. Slow.

"Then we don't have much time. — He stands. Old bones. Old coat. Old everything. — Whatever came through is still here. Still waiting. And it's not going to wait forever."

He walks to the wall. Puts a hand on the stone.

"Rest tonight. Tomorrow, we plan. Tomorrow, we fight. — He looks at me. — Or tomorrow, we open the door again. And finish what you started."