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My dad’s eyes light up, a flicker of a new idea taking shape. “And if I were to ask you to remove it?”

“No,” I say, slowly shaking my head as my belly clenches with dread. “I can’t do that.”

My dad’s gaze deepens, and though I try to read his expression, his emotions are locked into neutral. “Then let me ask you this,” he says. “You came here to learn, right?”

I squirm, a restless energy coursing through me as I nervously shift in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs, as the repeated warnings about never removing my talisman ricochet in my brain.

“Last time I was without it, things got pretty…dark.” I cringe as an image of the duke’s hateful, leering face blooms large in my head. The idea of deliberately making myself that vulnerable again is totally nonnegotiable.

“I understand,” my dad says, pulling me away from my thoughts. “But let me ask you this: what matters more—who you are now, or who you’ll be when you return to Gray Wolf?”

I’m struck silent. The answer is obvious. Yet I find myself reluctant to cross that particular line.

“If you truly want to claim complete mastery over your skills and your fears, you can’t rely on things like talismans and charms. You need to learn to rely solely on yourself.”

It makes sense, but that doesn’t stop me from shaking my head even more firmly this time.

“You said the last time you were without it, things got dark.” He waits for me to reply, but I just give a slight nod, nervous about where this is going. “And what if that happens again and you’re not—”

“It won’t,” I cut in, unwilling to discuss it. “There’s no way I’ll ever let that happen again.”

His eyes narrow on mine. “Does that mean you let it happen last time?”

I close my eyes, reminding myself that I came here to learn, even if it means being pushed well outside my comfort zone. When I open them again, I set my focus on him. “No,” I admit. “Last time, I lost it, and…” My voice trails off, I give a brisk wave of my hand. The details are hardly important.

“Natasha,” he starts, “I know this makes you uncomfortable. But if you’re truly here to grow and learn, then you’ll need to leave your past behind. Forget everything about who you once were—forgo all your assumptions about who you think you are—and start all over, begin anew.”

“It’s just…” I frown, feeling bad about my resistance, but this is not at all what I expected. “Before, our lessons were always focused on tarot, numerology”—I gesture toward the Antikythera—“and that.”

My dad grants me a patient nod. “And the fact that Arthur relies on you tells me you’ve already mastered those skills. Besides, you weren’t ready back then. No eight-year-old is. But you’re older now, and the stakes have never been higher. Every metamorphosis is always preceded by a mental one as well as a physical one. It’s like Shunryu Suzuki said:If your mind is empty, it is open to everything.”

My fingers nervously play with my charm, reluctant to let it out of my grasp. “Can’t I just fast-forward to the tattoo?” I motion toward the flower of life inked on the crook of his forearm.

“This is not where you start.” He taps a finger against the tattoo’s center. “This is where you end.”

I take a moment to process. After a moment, I say, “Is it really possible to start over?”

My dad rises and extends a hand. “It’s not only possible,” he says, “it’s imperative. Your trauma has imprinted on your subconscious, causing you to mentally time travel to relive it repeatedly. I’m going to show you how to let go of this self-conception you’ve formed. But first, I need you to trust me.”

I inhale a slow breath, reminding myself that, despite his looking like one of my peers, he really is my dad. And if he says this is what’s required for me to transcend, then who am I to question him?

Hardening my resolve, I reach behind my neck and unfasten the clasp. When it falls onto my open hand, it seems weighted with more than just its physical form. It’s like I’m holding a piece of myself—the only tangible link to who I really am.

This is real. Irrevocably, irretrievably real.But the moment I hand this over, everything I know, all that I’ve been taught, will fade until it’s completely erased from my mind.

I swallow hard. Overcome by a dreaded sense of finality as my gaze meets my dad’s.Get a grip,I silently warn, struggling to compose myself. Still, there’s a rawness to my emotions—a quivering lip, a hectic flush on my cheeks—that I can’t fully mask.

“Dad,” I manage to whisper, my voice betraying me with an embarrassing crack, as I gather my courage to hand over the charm. “You will give it back, though, right?”

He nods, his hand open and steady. “But by then, you won’t need it. After this, there’s no going back to who you once were.”

“And who do you think that is?” I ask, eager for a glimpse of his perception of me.

His face softens and, without hesitation, he says, “A smart, clever, resilient, courageous, beautiful young woman who’s had a bit of a rough go. And, because of that, she’s spent the last ten years living in survival mode.”

He pauses, maybe to let his words sink in, or maybe to allow me a chance to respond. But I remain silent, sensing there’s more to come.

“You’ve been taught that life happens to you, not for you,” he says. “And because of that, you’ve been shadowboxing your way through each day—fighting an invisible opponent seen only by you.”