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He doesn’t answer right away.

I imagine returning home and finding everyone I knew changed. Time reshaped. People buried. Streets renamed. Would I even recognize my world anymore? Or would it recognize me?

What if I’m already changing? Not just on the surface, but underneath. What if magic is remaking me into something that doesn’t fit anywhere. Not here, and not back home?

And yet, Sacha carries his exile like armor. Quiet. Composed. As though he never doubted he’d survive long enough to return.

“You pay more attention than it appears.”

“I don’t need to understand the language to see the way they look at you.” I meet his eyes. “Like they’ve been waiting for you.”

“Folklore persists even under Authority suppression. Storieschange in telling and retelling, getting reshaped to suit whatever hope people need, particularly during times of hardship.”

“That’s still not a real answer. What stories? What beliefs?”

The fire pops loudly, sending a shower of sparks upwards. Outside, the storm continues unabated, lightning flashing at irregular intervals, illuminating the sheets of driving rain.

My chest tightens. I know I’m not going to like whatever answer he gives me.

“There have been prophecies,” he says finally, voice so low I have to strain to hear him over the storm's assault. His reluctance is palpable, as though sharing this crosses some personal boundary. “Predictions about the return of shadow.”

“And your people are linking them to you?” I press, remembering the reverent way the people in Ravencross looked at him.

“And you.” His eyes meet mine, holding my gaze with unexpected intensity. “The timing of your arrival, the way you freed me when no one else could. They align with certain predictions made after my capture. Prophecies that persevered despite Authority attempts to eradicate such knowledge.”

“Is that why they look at me that way? They think I’m part of what? Some magical destiny?”

“I’m not claiming there’s any truth to it, or that you must believe in them. I’m simply explaining why others may attach significance to your presence.”

“Doyoubelieve them? These prophecies?”

His lips quirk up. “I believe in verifiable evidence and directobservation. The rest requires careful consideration before acceptance.”

“That isn’t a yes or a no.”

“Very few things of importance can be reduced to simple affirmation or denial.”

He has a gift for sounding philosophical when he’s just avoiding my question.

“I just want to go home.” I sigh, returning to the simple truth at the heart of all this complexity. “I don’t want to be part of prophecies or wars or magical destinies. I want to go back to Chicago, to my apartment, to my life.”

“I understand.” His voice softens slightly. “And that will remain one of our objectives. But I cannot ignore the responsibilities that came with my return, or what my presence means to my people.”

The fire has begun to die down. I feed it another small branch from the stack, watching as flames lick upward to embrace the new fuel.

“Try to sleep.” Sacha turns back to the storm-dark entrance. “We’ll move as soon as the storm passes.”

This time I don’t argue. I arrange my pack as a pillow the way Tisera did, and position myself where the fire’s warmth will still reach me.

As I drift toward sleep, the storm’s intensity seems to ease slightly. The thunder still rolls, but it sounds more distant now. Through half-closed eyes, I watch Sacha, where he sits near the entrance.

Just before consciousness slips away, something shifts in the firelight. The shadows it casts don’t flicker randomly the way theyshould. They lean toward him, flowing slowly across the stone, like smoke drawn to gravity. Gathering. Watching.

I blink, trying to focus, but exhaustion claims me before I can determine whether it’s real or simply a trick of the fading firelight.

My dreams are fragmented. Disconnected scenes that shift and change with bewildering speed.

Chicago in winter, snow falling in thick, silent flakes. The tower in the desert, silver surface ablaze beneath a sun that feels too close. Ravencross seen from above, its winding streets crawling with tiny Authority patrols.