Saturday morning came too early. Hadn't slept much after Kask's attack. Kept watching the trigger sigil, making sure I'd actually recorded something useful. Books snored on the upper bunk. Lucky bastard could sleep through anything.

I sat cross-legged on my mattress, trigger sigil drawn on the concrete floor between my knees. Blood mixed with spit and a drop of lamp oil—Kraus's technique for memory recording. The sigil looked like a spiral wrapped around a rune I'd made up. Algiz for protection, but twisted, hungry, designed to drink in magical energy and hold it.

Worked like I'd hoped. The attack was in there. Preserved. Just had to access it.

I put my palm flat on the sigil. Focused. Felt the cold tingle, like touching ice that wasn't quite solid. Memory flooded back.

Kask's magic was precise. Surgical. Each probe found a weakness in my outer ward, tested it, and moved on. No wasted energy. No emotion. Just cold assessment. The second layer took him longer—he'd circled the entire cell, looking for cracks in the protection. Found a few. Widened them methodically.

The blood ward stopped him cold. He'd hammered against it for maybe five minutes. Different techniques. Traditional Baltic binding patterns, some ceremonial magic influence, even a few chaos sigils that looked wrong when he used them. Rigid. Like reading from a script.

But underneath the technique: power. Decades of it. Experience I didn't have. The ward held because I'd poured everything into it when I made it. Blood magic, permanent, tied to the cell itself. But Kask had been studying it. Learning. Looking for the weakness.

He'd find it eventually.

I pulled my hand back. The sigil released me. My head throbbed. Reading magical recordings wasn't easy. Felt like watching a movie projected directly into your skull.

"Learn anything useful?" Books was awake. Looking down at me from the upper bunk, wire-rimmed glasses catching the fluorescent light.

"Yeah. I'm fucked."

Books climbed down. Sat on the edge of his bunk. "Elaborate."

"He's been doing this for forty years. Maybe longer. I've got two." I gestured at the trigger sigil. "Every move he made was textbook. Like he learned from actual teachers. Grandmother, probably. Traditional nõid—Estonian folk practitioner. The real deal."

"And you?"

"Learned from a dying Nazi and library books." I rubbed my eyes. "Not the same."

Books was quiet for a minute. Thinking. "What's he trying to accomplish? Beyond killing you."

"Not killing. Binding." I stood up, paced the six feet our cell allowed. "That's his specialty. Enslave the will first. Makes you a weapon he controls. Then either kill you or use you. Danny probably wants me used. Humiliated."

"Can you counter binding magic?"

"In theory." I'd read about it in Kraus's grimoire. Defenses against enslavement. But reading wasn't doing. "Need to maintain absolute will. No cracks. No doubt. Binding works by finding weakness in your resolve and widening it. One moment of 'maybe he's right' and you're done."

"You're good at stubbornness."

"Yeah, well." I managed half a smile. "Irish heritage. We're contrary as fuck."

Books leaned back against the cell wall. "So, he's more experienced. More trained. But you have two advantages."

"Which are?"

"First: You're unpredictable. Chaos magic by definition. He's traditional—follows rules, protocols, proper techniques. You make shit up."

"That's an advantage?"

"Against someone who thinks there's a correct way to do everything. Yes." Books gestured at the trigger sigil. "Second advantage: You know he's coming. He doesn't know you know."

I looked at the sigil. At the attack pattern preserved in blood and oil. "I could hit him first."

"You could."

"Track him down. Astral projection to wherever he is. Strike before he's ready."

"Dangerous."

"Everything's dangerous." I was already thinking through it. Violent offenders facility was eighty miles east. I'd never projected that far. But distance didn't matter in astral—the mind collapsed geography, made everywhere the same. Just needed a clear visualization.

Problem: I'd never seen the place. Didn't know Kask's cell. Projecting blind was asking to get lost or land somewhere wrong.

"How do I find him?" I asked. More to myself than Books.

"Same way he found you." Books pointed at the trigger sigil. "Magical signature. You recorded his. Use it like a homing beacon."

Yeah. That could work. Risky as hell, but possible. Follow the signature back to its source. Track Kask through the connection he'd established when he attacked my wards.

"Saturday night," I said. "Tonight. He'll be settled, not expecting it. I project to his location. Hit him while he's unprepared. At minimum, I learn his cell layout. At best."

"You hurt him." Books didn't sound convinced. "Or he kills you."

"He's not gonna kill me. Wants me bound, remember?"

"Thor." Books stood up. Serious now. "Listen to me. You're planning to project into a maximum-security facility full of violent offenders. Find a practitioner with forty years of experience. Engage him on his territory. While you're vulnerable, out of your body, tethered to a cell eighty miles away."

"Yeah."

"That's stupid."

"Probably." I looked at him. "Got a better idea?"

Books was quiet. Then: "No."

Count at noon. Lunch in the common area. I sat with Books; ate the institutional slop they called beef stew. Kept my head down. Conversation around us was normal—basketball game arguments, commissary trades, someone's parole hearing next week.

But I caught eyes on me. Brotherhood members across the room. Werner at another table, not looking my way. Word was spreading. Fish snitched. Brotherhood dropped him.

Give it a few days. Everyone would know. Then things would get bad.

Had to move fast.

"You need an anchor," Books said quietly. Fork pushing mystery meat around his tray. "Someone to watch your body. Wake you if something goes wrong."

"You."

"Obviously." He took a bite. Chewed. "How long you planning to be out?"

"No idea. Never projected to track someone before. Could be minutes. Could be hours."

"If you're not back by morning count, I'm pulling you back."

"How?"

"I'll figure something out. Shake you. Yell. Pour water on you. Whatever works."

I almost laughed. "Chaos magic. Use whatever works."

"You're teaching me bad habits."

Afternoon was research. Back to the library during tier free time. Officer Gibbins barely looked up from his phone when I walked in. Books worked the desk, filing returns. I grabbed everything I could find on astral projection, tracking, and magical signatures.

Most of it was Lobsang Rampa—questionable source, but his techniques worked. Visualization was key. The clearer you saw your destination, the more accurate the projection. But if you didn't have a destination image, you could track magical connections. Follow the thread back to its source.

I'd done something similar when I projected to Rochelle's apartment. Used her address, Danny's description, the balcony details from his conversation. Built the image from pieces. Landed six months in the past, but I'd landed.

This was different. I had Kask's magical signature—that cold, precise, surgical energy pattern from his attack. Could use it like a scent trail. Follow it home.

The temporal anchoring sigil would keep me in the present. Learned that from Kraus. Blood mark on my body before projection. Tether to now, to this moment, preventing time-slip. Cost me energy but worth it. Last thing I needed was landing in Kask's past or future.

I read until Officer Gibbins announced tier lockdown. Filed the books away. Walked back to Cell 47 with Books beside me.

"You sure about this?" Books asked as our door locked behind us.

"No." I sat on my bunk. "But I'm doing it anyway."

Lights out at ten. I waited until eleven. Prison settled into its night rhythm—coughing, snoring, someone crying three cells down. The Pit's echo made everything louder.

I stripped off my orange jumpsuit top. Used my thumbnail to scratch a line across my left forearm. Not deep, just enough for blood to well up. Drew the temporal anchor sigil carefully. Algiz at the center, spirals radiating out. Present moment. Here and now. Don't let me slip.

Books watched from the upper bunk. Didn't say anything. Knew better than to distract me.

I lay on my bunk. Closed my eyes. Started the relaxation process. Breath in. Breath out. Body heavy. Muscles releasing. The mattress beneath me, concrete floor below, metal bunk frame cold against my side.

Let it all fade.

Felt the tether form—that golden dust trail connecting consciousness to meat. Fragile. Lifeline. Break it and I was dead. Just consciousness floating free, unable to get home.

I pushed off. Out of my body, through the cell wall, up and away from CNCC. Prison dropped below me. Walls and wire and guard towers shrinking. Highway stretching east.

Then I stopped moving. Hung suspended in the space between. Not physical space—consciousness space. The realm where distance didn't matter and geography was just suggestion.

I pulled the trigger sigil memory forward. Kask's magical signature. Cold and precise and surgical. That Baltic folk magic pattern. Felt it in my mind like touching ice.

Show me where you came from.

The signature pulled. Tugged. Thread unspooling between my astral form and something distant. I followed it. Let it guide me. Distance collapsed. Eighty miles became nothing. The thread brightened, strengthened, and pulled me forward.

Snap.

Different prison. Bigger. Newer. Millhaven? No. Architectural style was wrong. This was the violent offenders facility. Where they sent the worst cases.

I floated outside a cell block. Maximum security. Reinforced doors. Camera everywhere. Not that cameras saw astral forms. Guards walked past beneath me. Checked doors. Moved on.

The thread led down. Third floor. Cell at the end of the row. I passed through the concrete wall.

Kask was meditating.

Sitting cross-legged on his bunk. Eyes closed. Hands resting on his knees. Late fifties, face weathered like old leather. Gray hair cut military short. Thin, wiry, dangerous. Orange jumpsuit with sleeves rolled up. Arms covered in scars. Ritual marks, I realized. Self-inflicted. Each one had meaning.

The cell was different from mine. Smaller. Darker. No cellmate. Protective custody maybe. Or earned through fear. Walls covered in sigils. Not carved—drawn in something dark. Blood probably. Protection wards, binding circles, summoning patterns. Twenty years of work.

This man was a practitioner. For real. Not a kid with library books. A master.

I hung there, invisible, astral form floating six feet from his bunk. Watching. My tether trailed back through the walls, golden and fragile.

Kask's eyes opened.

Looked right at me.

"Ah," he said. Slight accent. Estonian. "The boy who snitched on his client."

Fuck.

He could see me. Shouldn't be able to see me. Astral forms were invisible unless you knew how to look. Unless you'd trained your perception. Unless you'd spent decades learning.

"You came to my home," Kask said. Stood up. Slow. Controlled. No wasted movement. "Rude. But expected. You are young. Impulsive."

"How—" My astral voice came out wrong. Echoey. Thin.

"Forty-three years of practice," Kask said. "I see many things. Astral projection is basic technique. You are not invisible. Just... less visible."

He walked toward me. His physical body walking toward my projected consciousness. Reached out. His hand passed through my chest. Cold. Like ice water injected directly into my lungs.

I jerked back. Floated backward through the cell wall. Into the corridor.

Kask followed. Not physically. His astral form separated from his body. I watched it happen—golden mist pulling free, taking shape, becoming him. Two Kasks now. One meditating on the bunk. One standing in the corridor, looking at me.

"Neat trick," I managed.

"Taught by my vanaema. Grandmother. True nõid. Not pretender with tattooed skin and borrowed power."

"Yeah, well. I work with what I've got."

Kask's astral form smiled. Predator smile. "Danny Keyes hired me to break you. Bind you. Make you weapon against yourself. I take contracts. Professional work. Nothing personal."

"Feels pretty fucking personal."

"You witnessed murder. Reported it. Danny went to worse facility. Lost privileges. He is... upset." Kask circled me. Studying. "But I researched you. Thomas O'Reilly. Two years at medium security. Inherited power from Gustav Kraus. Norwegian Nazi occultist. Yes?"

"German."

"Same difference. Kraus was amateur. Talented amateur but limited. Prison magic only. Never learned true discipline. True technique." Kask stopped circling. "You are worse. Chaos magician. No foundation. No training. Just improvisation and luck."

"Working so far."

"Is it?" Kask gestured at my tether. At the golden thread stretching back toward CNCC. "You project eighty miles to threaten me. On my territory. Where I am strongest. Where I have twenty years of wards and protections. And you think this is... what? Courage? Strategy?"

"Thought I'd say hello."

"You thought you could hurt me." Kask's astral form moved closer. Right up in my consciousness. "You cannot. Watch."

He reached out again. This time he grabbed the tether.

Pain exploded through me. Not physical pain—my body was eighty miles away. Spiritual pain. Soul pain. Like someone had grabbed the thread connecting me to existence and yanked.

I screamed. Tried to pull away. The tether stretched. Golden dust fraying.

"You see?" Kask's voice was calm. Professional. "Astral projection is vulnerable. Especially for untrained practitioner. Your tether is lifeline. Break it, you die. Simple."

He pulled harder.

The tether stretched thinner. I could feel my body back in Cell 47. Gasping. Convulsing. Books shaking me. But I couldn't get back. Kask held me here. Trapped in the space between.

"I could kill you now," Kask said. "Snap this thread. Send you into void. But Danny wants you bound. Aware. Suffering."

He released the tether.

I snapped backward. Flying through walls and space and distance. Eighty miles compressed into seconds. Slammed back into my body like hitting concrete.

Sat up gasping. Blood pouring from my nose. Head splitting. Books was there, hands on my shoulders.

"Thor! Jesus Christ, you were convulsing—"

I puked over the side of the bunk. Nothing but bile. Everything hurt. Soul deep. Like I'd been pulled through a grinder and reassembled wrong.

"He saw me," I managed. "Grabbed my tether. Could've killed me. Fuck. Fuck."

Books grabbed the t-shirt from my bunk. Pressed it to my face. Blood everywhere. "What happened?"

"He's better. Way better. Decades better." I was shaking. Couldn't stop. "Separated his astral form from his body like it was nothing. Could see me perfectly. Grabbed my tether. Nearly broke it."

"But you're alive."

"Because he let me live." I looked at Books. "He wanted me to know. That he's in control. That I'm outmatched. That when he comes for me, I'm fucked."

Books didn't argue.

Took an hour to stop shaking. Books got me water from the sink. Helped clean the blood. I lay on my bunk, staring at the ceiling. The temporal anchor sigil on my arm had burned itself out. Protective circuit completed. Kept me in the present at least. Small mercy.

"You need help," Books said finally.

"No shit."

"I mean it. Real help. Someone who knows combat. Not theory from library books—actual fighting experience. Magical or otherwise."

I stared at the ceiling. "Who? I just lost Brotherhood protection. Latin Kings want me dead. Black Kingsmen are neutral at best. And I can't exactly advertise 'wanted: combat magic instructor' on the yard."

"There's got to be someone." Books was thinking out loud. Strategic mode. "Someone who benefits from you surviving. Someone with tactical reasons to want Kask stopped."

"Like who?"

"I don't know yet." He climbed up to his bunk. Settled in. "But think about it. Kask is a master practitioner with decades of experience. He didn't get to that level in isolation. He learned from someone. Worked with people. Made enemies, probably."

"So?"

"So maybe you're not the only person who wants him stopped. Maybe someone else has reasons to see you survive long enough to be a problem for him." Books paused. "You projected into hostile territory tonight. Took the fight to a master practitioner. That's brave. Stupid, but brave. The kind of thing that gets noticed."

"By who?"

"Don't know. But keep your eyes open. Someone might approach you. Might have information. Might have their own reasons to see Kask taken down a notch." He was quiet for a moment. " "Tomorrow you heal. Pay attention. See what develops. The right opportunity might present itself."

I thought about it. "You think someone knows I projected tonight?"

"If Kask can see astral forms, maybe others can too. Maybe someone felt the magical energy when you left. When you came back. Word spreads in here—not just about snitching. About everything."

He was right. Prison had its own information network. Things people noticed. Patterns they tracked. If I'd done something unusual magically, someone might have sensed it. Like Werner. I knew he’d been studying and he felt the first attack. How much did he know about what I was doing?”

I touched my nose. Still bleeding a little. "Kask could've killed me."

"But didn't."

"Because Danny wants me bound. Wants me aware while Kask uses me. Makes me hurt people I don't want to hurt." I opened my eyes. Looked at the ceiling. "Books, if he binds me—if I lose control—"

"Won't happen."

"You don't know that."

"No." Books's voice was steady. "But I know you. Two years I've watched you make the hard choices. Turn down money to keep your soul. Snitch on a murderer knowing it could get you killed. You've got the stubbornest will I've ever seen."

"Stubborn's not enough."

"It's a start." He was quiet for a moment. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow you heal. Monday you pay attention. One step at a time. Make the next right choice."

One step at a time.

I lay there in the dark. Cell 47's walls around me. Wards holding. Blood ward still strong. But for how long? Kask was studying them. Learning. Looking for cracks.

And I'd just shown him I was desperate enough to come after him. Stupid. Impulsive. Exactly what he'd said.

But I'd learned something too. Kask was better. More experienced. Stronger in technique. But he was traditional. Rigid. Followed rules and protocols. Baltic folk magic mixed with ceremonial influence. Proper ways to do things.

I was chaos. Improvisation. Making shit up. No foundation, like he said. But that meant no limitations either. No "correct" way to counter him.

Books was right. My advantage was unpredictability.

I pulled the thin prison blanket over myself. Tried to sleep. Couldn't. Kept seeing Kask's face. That cold professional assessment. The way he'd grabbed my tether like it was nothing.

"I see many things."

Yeah. He saw me. Saw through me. Knew exactly what I was. Kid playing with power he barely understood. Two years versus forty. Amateur versus master.

But I was still breathing.

That was something.

Sunday morning came gray and cold. I woke sore. Astral trauma didn't show bruises, but I felt it in my bones. Books was already up, reading on the upper bunk.

"How you feeling?" he asked.

"Like I got hit by a truck made of pure existential dread."

"That's specific."

"Yeah, well. I'm a poet." I sat up. Head throbbed. "Need to rebuild the outer wards. Kask broke two layers. Can't leave the blood ward as my only defense."

"After breakfast."

"After breakfast," I agreed.

We went to the common area. Got our trays. Sat at the table we'd claimed. I ate mechanically. Oatmeal and weak coffee. Fuel, not enjoyment.

Brotherhood members across the room. Werner at their table, talking to Brick. Axel at the head, reading something. They didn't look our way. Protection withdrawn. I was invisible to them now.

Latin Kings at another table. Rey's eyes found me once. Cold stare. Message clear: You're alone now. We'll be seeing you.

I finished my coffee. Went back to the cell.

I was rebuilding the outer ward when Werner showed up.

Sunday afternoon. Tier free time. Books had gone to the library—giving me space to work, probably. I was on my knees, drawing fresh sigils in blood and spit. The old protection layers Kask had broken and needed replacing. Stronger this time. Smarter.

"O'Reilly." Werner's voice from the doorway.

I looked up. He stood there in his orange jumpsuit, arms crossed. Blonde beard, cold blue eyes. Brotherhood's recruiter. The guy who'd given me the ultimatum Friday. Join or die alone.

"Thought we were done talking," I said.

"Yeah. Me too." He glanced down the tier. Making sure nobody was listening. Stepped into the cell. Closed the door most of the way. "We need to talk. Different conversation."

I sat back on my heels. Wiped blood from my fingers onto my jumpsuit. "About?"

"Emil Kask paid me a visit last night."

Everything in me went still. "What?"

"Astral projection. Same time you were gone, probably. Books said you were convulsing, bleeding. I figured you did something stupid." Werner's jaw worked. "Kask showed up in my cell around the same time. Just... there. Floating. Looking at me."

"He can see astral forms," I said. "And separate his own from his body. Did it to me too."

"I know." Werner's voice was tight. Angry. Not at me—at something else. "I know what he can do. We worked together. Long time ago. Outside."

I stared at him. "You and Kask?"

"Same organization. Estonian mob had connections to white power networks. Trafficking, weapons, ideology. Kask was their occultist. I was..." He stopped. "I was learning. Studying under him. Before I got locked up."

My mouth went dry. "You practiced magic."

Werner's hands clenched. "Past tense. Yeah."

"What happened?"

He was quiet for a long moment. Looking at my half-finished ward. At the blood sigils on the floor. Finally: "I used the power wrong. Hate crime that got me inside. Beat a guy nearly to death outside a mosque. Used runic magic to make it worse. Make him suffer longer."

I didn't say anything.

"The Æsir don't tolerate that shit," Werner continued. Voice flat. "Using sacred power for profane hatred. The moment I crossed that line, they severed me. Ripped the connection right out. I can still sense magic. Still see it, feel it, recognize techniques. But I can't cast. Can't channel. It's like... being blind after you could see. Deaf after hearing music. You know it's there. You remember what it was. But you can't touch it anymore."

"How long?"

"Twelve years. Since I got arrested." He looked at me. "Kask shielded himself from that consequence. Found a way to keep his power even while serving dark purposes. Old Baltic technique. Blood protection. He told me about it when we worked together. I was too arrogant to listen. Thought the gods would never abandon a true believer."

"But they did."

"Yeah." Werner's voice was bitter. "They did. And last night, Kask showed up to remind me. Separated his astral form. Floated there in my cell. Said: 'Remember when you could do this, Werner? Remember what it felt like?' Then he left. Just... vanished. Like it was nothing."

I understood. "He was sending a message."

"To both of us. You, he nearly killed. Me, he reminded that I'm powerless. That I lost what he kept." Werner uncrossed his arms. "But here's the thing. You've got power. Real power. And you're using it against him. You projected eighty miles to his cell. Tracked him through his magical signature. That's advanced technique for two years of practice."

"He almost killed me."

"Almost isn't dead." Werner crouched down. Eye level with me. "You survived. You learned something. And now you know you need training."

I watched him carefully. "What kind of training?"

"Combat magic. Runic warfare. Everything Kask taught me before the Æsir cut me off." Werner's eyes were intense. "I can't teach you by demonstration. Can't show you combat magic by casting it. But I can teach you theory. Technique. Everything I learned. I studied for years. I remember it all. The runes, the patterns, the combat applications. I know what works because I used to do it."

"Why would you help me?"

Werner smiled. Cold smile. "Because Kask reminded me what I lost. And I can't get it back—not while I'm locked up with this ideology eating me from the inside. But you? You're fighting him. You're using chaos magic and improvisation and fucking audacity to go up against a master practitioner. If you beat him, it proves something."

"What?"

"That traditional power isn't everything. That creativity beats rigidity. That someone who never had proper training can overcome someone who's spent forty years perfecting technique." Werner stood up. "And maybe... maybe watching you work, teaching you what I know, I can understand why you still have power when I don't. What you're doing different. What keeps the gods listening to you."

I looked at him. Brotherhood recruiter. White supremacist. True believer in Nordic mythology. Man who lost his power by violating sacred trust.

And someone who knew combat magic theory better than anyone else at CNCC.

"Tactical alliance," I said. "You teach me. I use what I learn to survive Kask. If he comes after Brotherhood members, I help defend them. But I don't join. Don't take your oath. Don't kill on your command. I keep my independence and my principles."

"Your six rules."

"Yeah."

Werner thought about it. "What do I get?"

"Front row seat to chaos magic in action. Everything I learn from you, I'll adapt. Change. Make my own. You'll see techniques you never imagined because I don't know the 'proper' way to do things. Maybe that's worth something. Maybe it teaches you what the Æsir want."

"And if you beat Kask?"

"Then you'll know it's possible. To overcome a master with creativity instead of power. To win without compromising principles." I met his eyes. "Isn't that what the old gods actually respected? Warriors who held to their code even when it cost them?"

Werner was quiet for a long time. Then: "Wednesday. Library cart. We'll start with runic combat theory. Offensive and defensive applications. How to layer protections while maintaining attack capability. What Kask taught me before he went to Estonia."

"And in return?"

"You show me every technique you develop. Every adaptation, every improvisation, every weird chaos magic solution you create. I want to see it all. Want to understand how someone with two years and library books can stand against forty years of traditional training."

"Deal."

We didn't shake hands. This wasn't that kind of alliance. This was two men who needed each other for different reasons. Werner wanted to understand what he'd lost. I wanted to survive.

"One more thing. Kask said something before he vanished. Said: 'The boy is more dangerous than you know. Not because of his power. Because he refuses to compromise.' What'd he mean?"

"My principles. The six rules I won't break."

"He's threatened by that?"

"Binding magic works by finding cracks in your will. Moments of doubt, weakness, 'maybe he's right.' If you've got unshakable principles—lines you absolutely won't cross—it's harder to bind you. The will is already defined, already committed."

Werner nodded slowly. "So, your stubborn Irish morality is actually magical defense."

"Apparently."

"Huh." He almost smiled. "Books is right. You're learning weird shit nobody else would think of."

Werner turned to leave, then stopped. Hand on the door frame. "One more thing."

"Yeah?"

"The snitch thing. Word's spreading. You got maybe three, four days before everyone knows." He looked back at me. "Brotherhood members know you dropped Danny. We're okay with it—child-killer, like I said. But general population? They won't care about context. They'll just hear 'snitch' and that's it."

"I know."

"No, you don't." Werner's voice was flat. "You think you know. But you've been protected. Haven't seen what happens to unprotected snitches in gen pop. It's not a beating. It's not a warning. They make examples. Drawn out. Public. So, everyone remembers."

My throat went dry. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying this is a tactical alliance. It buys you something. Not full Brotherhood protection—you refused membership, that's done. But word will spread that you're working with us. That you're useful. That touching you costs more than it's worth."

"Will that be enough?"

Werner shrugged. "Depends. Latin Kings already want you dead for refusing Rey. When they hear you're a snitch too? They'll push harder. Black Kingsmen will stay neutral—Books vouches for you, and we don't start shit with them without cause. But unaffiliated inmates? Guys who want to make a name? Prove they're hard?"

"They'll come for me."

"Yeah. They will." He met my eyes. "So, you keep your head down. You don't advertise what you're doing. Training sessions are quiet. Library cart, you and me talk theory, nobody hears. Brotherhood members know, but they won't talk. Everyone else thinks you're just another fish who lost protection."

"Except I'm not."

"Except you're not. You're the fish who's learning combat magic from a former practitioner. Who's going up against a master like Kask. Who's got enough balls to project eighty miles into hostile territory." Werner almost smiled. "That spreads too. Different network. Magical network. The people who can sense what you're doing? They'll hear. They'll watch. Some might approach you. Some might try to kill you before you become a problem."

"Great."

"Prison's a food chain, O'Reilly. You were protected prey. Now you're unprotected. But you're also developing teeth. Next few weeks determine which you become: victim or predator."

"I'm not a predator."

"No. You're something else." Werner thought about it. "You're the guy who refuses to play the game the way everyone else does. Who keeps principles in a place where principles get you killed. Kask said you're dangerous because you won't compromise. He's right."

"Doesn't feel dangerous. Feels like a target."

"Same thing, sometimes." Werner pushed off the door frame. "Monday. Library cart. We start with defensive layering. How to maintain wards while under active assault. First thing Kask taught me. First thing you need to survive."

"Wednesday," I said. "Library cart's Wednesday."

Werner paused. "Right. Wednesday. Yard time Monday, then. I'll find you. We'll talk theory. Look like we're just shooting the shit about Nordic mythology. Nobody needs to know it's combat training."

"And if someone asks what we're talking about?"

"Tell them I'm trying to recruit you again. That I haven't given up on bringing you into the Brotherhood properly." He shrugged. "It's close enough to true. I am trying to recruit you. Just not the way they think."

"You want me to join?"

"I want you to beat Kask. Prove that someone who holds to their code can overcome someone who threw theirs away." Werner looked at me hard. "If watching you win teaches me how to reconnect with the Æsir? How to get my power back without compromising what they stand for? Then yeah, maybe you recruiting me. Teaching me what the gods actually want."

He left before I could respond to that.