“It’s time, little sister,” Morwenna’s voice, though calm, cut through the wind’s shriek, carrying a chilling finality. She took another step into the hall, the mire-water swirling around her expensive boots. Her gaze fixed on the river stone clutched in Rhys’s hand, then flickered to Ffion’s faint image within its depth. Rhys’s muscles coiled. Gwyllgi, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest, shifted, his massive frame a shield at Rhys’s side. The air in the manor, thick with salt-damp and river rot, hummed against Rhys's teeth, pulsing between the two intruders. The Thirteenth Tide surged against the stone piers of Tŷ Haearn. Its dark water, cold and insistent, was climbing the steps, licking at their ankles. “The conduit is ready,” Rhystyd said, his voice dropping to a gravelled rasp. He made no move towards Rhys, instead watching Morwenna. “Proceed, Morwenna. The tide waits for no one.” Morwenna nodded, her focus locked on the smooth river pebble. She lifted the silver trinket, its corroded hinge sparking pale viridian, and began to chant. Her words, not Welsh, nor any tongue Rhys recognized, were a guttural, rhythmic cadence that seemed to vibrate through the very structure of the house. The sounds resonated with the rising tide, the water around them beginning to churn and writhe as if alive. Ffion’s image in the river stone flickered, her face contorting in distress. “No!” Rhys lunged, but Rhystyd closed the distance first, swinging an iron forearm across Rhys's chest. “You will not interfere.” Knuckles caught Rhys beneath the cheekbone with a wet crack. Stars exploded behind Rhys’s eyes, and he stumbled back, spitting blood into the rising water. The taste of salt and copper filled his mouth. “Rhys!” Ffion’s scream, though soundless, ripped through him, sharper than any blow. Her image in the stone was twisting, fading at the edges. Morwenna’s syllables quickened, the pendant between her fingers flaring bile-green. Gwyllgi sprang from the dark water, massive jaws snapping an inch from Rhystyd's windpipe. The man staggered back, flailing into the shallows. Rhys pushed off the peeling wainscot and drove his shoulder forward. The cultist twisted aside, planting a boot hard into Rhys's kneecap until the joint tore with hot fire. Rhys gritted his teeth, forcing himself upright, vision swimming. Morwenna’s chant intensified, her voice now a commanding drone that seemed to pull at Ffion’s essence. The water in the hall pulsed with the magic, small whirlpools forming around their feet. Ffion’s form was almost translucent now, her expression a mix of terror and despair. Rhys knew Tŷ Haearn. He knew its groaning timbers, its precarious balance, the places where neglect had eaten deepest. He remembered the glasshouse wing, its ceiling a sagging web of fractured panes and corroded lead. It was a risk, a desperate gamble, but Morwenna had positioned herself directly beneath it, drawn there by some instinct for grandiosity. With a guttural cry, Rhys lunged past Cormac, ignoring the blows that rained down on his back. He dragged his bad leg toward the ruined archway on the left. Morwenna stood inside, lids pinched tight, the corroded pendant burning with sickly luminance. The ritual was almost complete. He had seconds. Bracing against the lintel, he threw his shoulder hard into the rotting timber post that held the glass frame overhead. He slammed his shoulder into it, once, twice, a third time, putting every ounce of his strength, his desperation, into the impact. The wood groaned, a sound that mirrored the house’s deeper agony. Above Morwenna, a hairline fracture spiderwebbed across the glass, then widened. A sickening crack echoed through the house, louder than the storm. Glass shards, heavy with rainwater, began to rain down. Morwenna’s eyes snapped open, a shriek of surprise tearing from her throat as she threw her arms up to shield herself from the deluge. Ponded rainwater and heavy glass cascaded in a single thunderous roar, dropping two hundredweight of leaded frames across Morwenna. She pitched sideways into the mire, her chant cut short, fingers stripped clean of the talisman. A thick curtain of murky water now separated her from Rhys and the river stone. Rhystyd backed away from Gwyllgi's snapping teeth, spitting curses as shards rained down. “You fool! You’ll bring the whole house down!” “Good!” Rhys gasped, his lungs burning, his shoulder screaming in protest. He had bought them time. He looked at Ffion’s image in the river stone, still flickering, still unstable, but no longer actively being pulled. Dai’s notes, the frantic scribbles in the margins, flashed through his mind. *Spirit must accept. Conduit is the tether. Destroy the tether, sever the bind.* “Ffion!” he yelled, his voice raw, cutting through the din of the storm and the groaning manor. “You don’t have to go with her! You can choose! She can’t force you!” Her image solidified slightly, her eyes, wide and luminous within the stone, met his. He could feel her fear, her pain, but beneath it, a spark of something else. Agency. A choice. Her choice. “Reject her!” he urged, his voice hoarse, desperate. “Reject the binding! Destroy the conduit!” Morwenna, soaked and disheveled, her expensive clothes torn by falling glass, scrambled out from beneath the collapsed section. Her gaze snapped to the silver oval lying drowned in four inches of silt. She scrambled on hands and knees, snatching it back until the phosphorescence sparked again. “It’s too late, Rhys!” Morwenna screamed, her voice cracking with fury. “She is mine!” But Ffion’s gaze was on her sister, a fierce, burning accusation in her eyes. The image in the river stone, instead of fading, sharpened, grew clearer, imbued with a sudden, potent force. Heat surged out of the wet flint in Rhys's palm. Ffion’s jaw tore open within the mineral plane, releasing a soundless scream of pure venom. “No!” Her voice, though unheard by Morwenna or Cormac, echoed in Rhys’s very bones. The scream was so powerful, so absolute, that the very water of her image in the stone rippled violently, shattering the glass-smooth surface into a thousand frantic cracks. Rhys snapped his arm forward, hurling the river stone straight at the glow in her grip. Flint cracked against corroded brass with the violence of a hammer-strike. The bile glare flared white, then died as the casing buckled and sheared along its hinge. An invisible wave of force exploded outward, throwing Morwenna backwards into the mire with a choked cry. Rhystyd flew hard against the brickwork, coughing up grey water. Rhys, battered and exhausted, felt himself lifted off his feet, slammed against the doorframe, the wind knocked from his lungs. The entire manor groaned, timbers shrieking in protest, as the Thirteenth Tide, unleashed and unconstrained, roared through the gaping front door, swallowing the hall in its icy, dark embrace.