PUCKED ON ICE
I turn the puck over one more time, slower now, and something cold and strange moves through my chest.
Caspian carries a lucky puck. Has for years, apparently I overheard Riven mention it once in passing, something about how Beckett sleeps with it under his pillow, how no one's ever supposed to touch it or even acknowledge it exists because that's the kind of superstition that runs so deep it's become structural, load-bearing, the kind of thing you can't remove without something else collapsing.
Under his pillow.
I look down at the puck in my hand. Look at my bed. Look at the pillow I just pulled it out from under.
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