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Her request surprises me. Not just the words, but the vulnerability behind them.

“As you wish.” The words emerge more gently than intended.

The music changes, strings and percussion blending into a traditional Veinwarden melody that once accompanied fighters intobattle. Recognition stirs dormant memories of blood and shadow, and fierce determination borne through silence and loss.

The dancers at the heart of the room move through forms that blend combat and celebration, their bodies telling a story of defiance, of knowledge preserved through years of forbidden practice.

“What are they doing?”

"Training disguised as dance." I watch recognition dawn on her face. "When the Authority outlawed combat practice outside of their soldiers, our people adapted. Each movement contains a strike, a parry, a killing blow, disguised beneath grace and tradition."

“Clever.” There's genuine admiration in her voice. “Hiding resistance in plain sight.”

She shifts beside me, lifting a hand to cover a yawn that she fails to suppress. The silver light flickers briefly beneath her skin, almost imperceptible, but my senses are attuned to her now in ways I hadn't intended.

“Why don't we say our goodbyes?”

Relief crosses her face before she nods. We weave through the room, in a dance of our own as we stop to acknowledge murmurs of respect, bows, and hands pressed to hearts. The weight of their expectations follows us all the way to the door.

“Thank you.” She breaks the silence as we make our way through the torch-lit passages to my quarters. “For staying with me, I mean. When that thing happened with the cup …” Her voice trails off, embarrassment coloring her words.

“Your abilities are getting stronger.” I focus on facts rather than the unusual protectiveness I felt. “Each manifestationfollows a pattern I'm beginning to recognize. Emotional intensity triggers the power.”

“Is that good or bad?” Worry threads through her question.

“That depends on whether you can learn to control it.” And whether that control serves my objectives or complicates them more.

We reach my quarters, and I halt at the threshold, muscles locking. My lungs constrict as the doorway narrows in my vision, twenty-seven years of imprisonment collapsing around me in an instant.

What if I step through and can’t leave again?

What if this freedom is merely another illusion, a crueler prison disguised as sanctuary?

Sweat breaks cold on my spine. I force my breathing to remain even, counting heartbeats until the panic recedes. This isn’t the first time it’s happened since leaving the tower, but it’s definitely the strongest. I mask the moment by stepping back, and gesturing for her to enter first, a courtesy that hides necessity.

Lightstones embedded in the walls cast a warm amber glow across the main room, softening the severity of the mountain fortress architecture. I follow her inside, and anchor myself in the reality that this door, unlike the tower’s, remains completely within my control.

Ellie remains oblivious, crossing the room that leads to her chamber, then turns to face me. The silver stars on her dress shimmer with the movement.

"You never really answered my question earlier. About what you told them about me." Her directness is both refreshing and inconvenient.

“I told them what they needed to know.” The partial truth serves its purpose, giving me flexibility while I settle back into my position, but her habit of asking direct questions makes concealment increasingly difficult. “That you helped free me, your world differs from ours, and you possess unusual abilities.”

“But not everything you suspect.” Her perception cuts through pretense with unsettling accuracy.

“No. Not everything.” I concede this point easily enough.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’tknoweverything.” Better to admit limited knowledge than create false expectations that might later undermine trust I may need. “Theories without evidence will cause more problems than they will solve. Especially now, when hope and fear balance on a knife's edge.”

“Like prophecies.” She catches the implication immediately.

I was waiting for that.

“Yes, like prophecies, and half-formed ideas about your abilities that might limit what is truly possible.” I choose my words with care. “The Veinwardens have waited decades for salvation. I won't encourage them to place that burden on your shoulders without certainty.”

She falls silent, eyes tracking me as I move across the room to the carved stone shelf where a decanter waits. The familiar ritual of pouring a drink grounds me in the present, in the physical world of cause and effect that I understand.