Joren didn’t remember the first steps he took away from Graythorn.

  He didn’t remember telling himself to move, or choosing the road, or passing beyond the last fence post where the village fields ended.

  He remembered waking.

  Cold air scraped his lungs as he dragged in breath, lying on his side near the edge of the forest trail. The sky was pale with early dawn. His clothes were stiff with dried blood that wasn’t his. His cheeks felt tight where tears had dried and cracked.

  For a while he just lay there, listening to the sound of his own breathing.

  In.

  Out.

  Still alive.

  It felt wrong.

  He pushed himself upright slowly. His limbs were heavy, as if someone had wrapped lead around his bones while he slept. The forest around him was quiet—gold light creeping between trunks, mist fading off the grass.

  His hands shook as he looked at them.

  These were the hands that had held Bran when he fell to one knee and didn’t stand again. That had pressed against Lira’s torn side. That had tried, too late, to catch Tyren as he struck the tree. That had cradled Sera’s face as the light faded from her eyes.

  Hands that had gripped a sword and cut a Revenant in half.

  Hands that didn’t feel like just his anymore.

  A faint silver-blue shimmer pulsed beneath his skin, trailing in thin threads along his veins, then fading.

  He clenched his fists. “Stop.”

  The glow died down, but the weight in his chest didn’t.

  He stood.

  He walked.

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  He wasn’t sure for how long.

  The path took him past the places he’d grown up around without thinking: the stump Bran used to force him to jump on and off until his legs burned; the stream where Lira had laughed as he slipped in chasing a fish; the slope where Sera picked herbs while lecturing him about dosage; the hill Tyren swore had once hidden a demon, which turned out to be a very offended goat.

  Every step pulled another memory out of him like wire.

  He kept walking.

  The sun rose higher. Birds started their cautious songs. The world had the gall to be normal.

  A soft wind stirred the grass. It carried the smell of earth and pine and something older, distant.

  Bran’s voice touched his thoughts like a steady hand on his shoulder.

  Breathe.

  Joren stopped in the middle of the road.

  He stared at the empty path ahead, then turned around.

  The road behind him was just dirt and trees and light.

  “Bran?” His voice came out rough. “Bran?”

  Silence.

  Then a sharp, exasperated sigh in the back of his mind:

  If you stand in the open any longer, something’s going to eat you, idiot.

  Lira.

  His throat tightened. “No—no, no, this isn’t—”

  Soft, small, warm:

  Joren… it’s alright. We’re here.

  Sera.

  Another voice, bright even through a frayed edge of fear:

  Yeah. Would’ve been awkward if only you made it. I’d never let you live it down.

  Tyren.

  His knees buckled.

  He dropped into the tall grass beside the road, fingers digging into the dirt as if he could hold onto something that wasn’t slipping away.

  “You’re dead,” he whispered. “You’re dead. I watched you die.”

  The air around him warmed, just a little. Not enough to touch. Enough to feel.

  We know, Bran said quietly. The presence that was him settled behind Joren’s ribs, solid and steady. But we chose not to vanish.

  Lira’s tone turned dry. Could’ve gone anywhere, apparently. Ended up in you. Really need to talk to whoever designed that system.

  Sera’s presence brushed his, all gentle edges. It was warm, Joren. Safe. Familiar. It felt like… home.

  Tyren huffed. Plus, we weren’t about to let you get all the drama.

  Joren squeezed his eyes shut. “Why me?” he asked, voice cracking. “Why didn’t you… go where you were supposed to?”

  None of them answered directly.

  But he felt it:

  Trust.

  Unfair, crushing trust.

  He stayed on his knees for a long time, one hand pressing against his chest as if he could keep them from slipping away.

  Eventually, the shaking in his muscles eased.

  He wiped his face on his sleeve, stood, and picked up his pack.

  “I have to keep moving,” he murmured.

  We know, Bran said.

  Don’t trip over your own feet, Lira added.

  Eat something soon, Sera urged.

  Tyren snorted. If he starves with four of us yelling at him, I’m haunting whoever finds the body.

  Joren almost smiled.

  Almost.

  He walked on.

  Behind him, the village of Graythorn shrank into the trees.

  Ahead of him, through ridge and forest, something else moved.

  On a distant slope, Aelric Vael paused as a faint thread of silver-blue Aether brushed against his senses.

  He opened his eyes.

  “Close,” he said.

  Kaela, adjusting her saddle strap, glanced his way. “Think he knows we’re coming?”

  “No,” Aelric replied. “That’s the dangerous part.”