The Hammond felt different at night.
Isla had thought she knew what “after hours” in a museum felt like: the hush, the creaks, the subtle shift of objects settling into their shadows.
The Hammond’s silence was… tense.
Wounded.
She signed in on the overnight log, trying to keep her hand steady.
Claire met her in the staff lounge, a mug of coffee clutched like a lifeline.
“You sure about this?” she asked. “You don’t have to stay. You must have your own mess to deal with.”
“I do,” Isla said truthfully. “But I also have insomnia and too much curiosity. If I go home, I’ll just lie awake imagining worst-case scenarios. Here, at least, I might… see something useful.”
Claire huffed a faint, tired laugh.
“Morbid solidarity,” she said. “I’ll take it. We’ll have one guard in the medieval wing at all times. Cameras, obviously. Rotating patrols. You can camp out in the reading alcove. Try not to spill coffee on anything from the twelfth century.”
“I make no promises,” Isla said.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
She ignored it.
Claire looked like she might collapse if she saw the word “dragon.”
***
At 11:30 PM, the museum was officially empty.
Lights dimmed.
Doors locked.
Security systems armed.
Isla sat in a small alcove off the medieval gallery, a reading lamp casting a pool of light over an open book she wasn’t actually reading.
She wore her own hoodie over her museum shirt, the Hammond loan blanket over her knees.
Her phone lay face down on the bench beside her.
She could feel it hum every time a message came in.
She did not look.
She knew, without needing to see, that at least some of those messages were from Tim.
And that through Tim, Cael was… watching.
She could feel him.
Not visually.
Through the bond.
A low, steady pressure at the edges of her awareness.
Waiting.
It should have been creepy.
It was.
And something else.
Almost… reassuring.
The guard assigned to the wing—Phillip, mid-twenties, bored—paced the length of the gallery like a restless tiger.
He’d introduced himself awkwardly, clearly confused about the presence of another staff member at this hour.
Now, he mostly ignored her.
She pretended to read.
The crown’s hum vibrated in her bones.
Midnight came.
One.
Two.
At 2:30 AM, Phillip yawned for the fifth time in ten minutes and muttered something about coffee.
“I’m going to hit the lounge,” he called softly. “You need anything?”
“I’m good,” she said.
As soon as his footsteps faded, her pulse leaped.
She picked up her phone and glanced at the screen.
Tim: *Guard leaving gallery. Ten-minute window max.*
Her thumbs flew.
*He just left. Crown case clear. Cameras?*
Tim: *Jay’s got them. Static starting… now.*
The air shifted.
The hairs on her arms stood up.
The hum in her bones spiked.
She stood slowly, heart pounding.
The gallery beyond the alcove flickered.
Literally.
The lights dimmed, then flared.
The red dots under the cameras blinked once, then went dark.
Static surged at the edge of her hearing, like a radio between stations.
“Cael,” she whispered.
“I am here,” his voice answered in her head.
She jolted.
He sounded… closer than last time they’d spoken this way.
Not echoey.
Immediate.
She stepped into the gallery.
The cases glimmered faintly in the dim.
The crown’s case glowed.
Her feet carried her toward it as if pulled by a magnet.
Her hands shook.
“Open it,” Cael’s voice murmured.
Her fingers fumbled with the key she’d palmed earlier.
The lock clicked.
She lifted the glass lid with both hands, arms straining.
Cold air spilled out, prickling her skin.
The crown was right there.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to pick up.
Close enough to ruin everything.
Her breath sawed in and out.
“Isla,” Cael said.
She hadn’t told him that name in the bond.
He’d learned it from her thoughts.
It sounded… different in his mind-voice.
Ih-la.
Like a word from some old tongue.
She swallowed.
“Now,” she whispered.
She reached.
Her fingers brushed gold.
The world snapped.
For a second, she was nowhere.
No.
Everywhere.
Stone.
Gold.
Fire.
Cold.
The Hammond.
Her own museum.
The coal room.
The cavern.
They overlaid each other like badly printed transparencies.
A roar split the air.
Her knees buckled.
Something huge surged past her without moving.
A presence.
Crowned.
Ancient.
Hungry.
Cael.
And…
Something else.
Something that had been in the glitch at the Hammond.
Something that lived in the cracks between.
It brushed against her awareness like a cold hand.
Not Cael.
Not dragon.
Different.
Old in another way.
It recoiled at the touch of her scar.
Her thumb burned white-hot.
She gasped.
“Isla,” Cael snarled in her head. “Hold.”
Her fingers locked around the crown.
She felt it.
The piece of Cael that lived in it.
His memories.
His rage.
His joy.
His loneliness.
His *pride*.
It poured into her, too much, too fast.
She saw through his eyes, once upon a time:
—standing on a mountain ledge as humans below lifted their faces, fear and awe mingled—
—laughing with a woman who wore the crown askew, her dark hair tangled, her fingers smudged with charcoal—
—snarling at a robed man in a circle of sigils, arcane symbols burning—
Her heart hammered.
The cold other-thing circled, wary.
Testing the edges of the hoard-tunnel Cael had opened.
He pushed against it like a storm wind.
*Mine,* he roared—not at her, not at the crown.
At the path.
At the power.
At *whatever else* was trying to use it.
The air in the gallery shuddered.
The case lid rattled.
Isla’s teeth ached.
She thought she heard, faintly, the Hammond’s security system screaming, trying to reboot.
“Cael,” she gasped. “You’re… you’re going to—”
“Do not let go,” he snarled.
Her arm burned.
Her thumb felt like it was on fire.
If she released the crown, maybe it would stop.
If she held on, maybe she’d break.
The other-thing probed again.
Slid along the bond between her, the crown, and Cael like a snake along a branch.
Curious.
Hungry.
“You can’t have him,” she whispered fiercely.
She had no idea who she meant.
The presence recoiled again, hissing.
Her thumb flared brighter.
The scar on her skin shone faintly in the dim gallery, a thin line of light.
The other-thing withdrew, retreating into the cracks.
Cael shoved.
The hoard-tunnel snapped.
The world lurched.
Isla hit the floor hard.
The crown tumbled from her hands.
A strong arm caught it before it clanged against the stone.
Cael.
Not in her head.
In front of her.
In the Hammond.
In human form, bare feet on the polished floor, hair wild, eyes blazing.
He held the crown in one hand like it weighed nothing.
Power crackled off him in waves.
He looked… terrible.
And terrifying.
And more alive than he had since she’d met him.
“Curator,” he said, voice rough.
Alarm klaxons wailed.
Lights flashed.
Somewhere, a door slammed open.
“Phil!” someone shouted. “The medieval wing—”
Isla scrambled to her feet.
“Run,” she hissed.
Cael’s gaze flicked to the far exit.
To the cameras starting to reboot.
To the empty cases.
To her.
He smiled, sharp and wild.
“Come,” he said, grabbing her wrist.
The bond between them sang.
They ran.
***
End of Chapter Seven.
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