Behind her, a second figure emerged from the hallway shadows. Lyra, the sorceress. Her hands crackled with unspent magic, and her beautiful face was a mask of fury and heartbreak.

A knock on the door. Soft. Familiar.

Kaelen swung his legs over the side of the bed, naked, unarmed, and more terrified than any of his deaths had made him.

He woke to silk sheets that smelled of jasmine and old blood—his own, from a timeline where wife number seven had slit his throat during lovemaking.

He pressed the button.

“Again?” he asked.