Samson's hand is nearly at the latch when the lullaby's next bizarre verse is spoken—by whom, by what—and there his hand goes still, along with the rest of him. A minute turn of his head, straining of his eyes all the way to the right, their blood-rimmed whites flashing at the door. The sudden clatter turns him full about almost against his will (hand twitching for a sword that isn't there, even after all this time) and the sight of this new aberration staggers him, too, very literally, so that he seems to mimic Anna's recoil. The door thumps beneath his sudden weight.

No guard reaction from outside; Samson doesn't notice. Not yet. He's a bit preoccupied.

"Maker's fuck—"

Demon. He doesn't think it, but feels it, with bone-deep certainty, an alarm in every vein, every limb. And it stops there, becomes no more productive than the sudden clarity of tunnel vision. Everything gone murky but that... thing.