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He glances at Mira, who suddenly becomes very interested in adjusting her pack. My question makes her uneasy, almost scandalized, but I can't take it back. I don't want to.

“This was my home,” he says after a pause that lasts long enough for me to think he won't answer at all. His voice drops lower, meant only for me despite Mira's presence. “Not just a base of operations. A home. My private chambers had windows that caught the moon’s light.”

His eyes drift to the window, seeing something beyond the courtyard.

“My mother's gardens were where the barracks stands now. The great library …” He stops abruptly, jaw tightening. “Seeing what they've done to it is ... challenging.”

The rare admission catches me off guard, this unexpected gift of trust. Sacha rarely reveals personal reactions, preferring strategic assessment to emotional response. This glimpse beneath his armor feels like being allowed into a room few are permitted to enter.

I seize on the one word he probably wishes he hadn’t said.

“Your mother?”

Mira's back stiffens instantly, as though she’s physically bracing herself against a coming blow. Sacha’s eyes move over my face, not quite meeting my eyes.

“She loved growing things. Things that belonged to no one but the seasons. The gardens were hers … until they were razed.” He exhales sharply.

I hesitate, every instinct telling me not to press further, but the question rises anyway, soft and unsteady.

“Loved?”

Mira spins, one hand pressed to her mouth in silent horror, staring at me from over Sacha’s shoulder, her expression pleading, willing me to stop.

Sacha doesn’t look away.

“Yes. Was. Sereven murdered her not long before Ashenvale fell.”

The silence that follows is heavy enough to suffocate. I want to reach for his hand but don't, sensing that even the smallest gesture would shatter whatever fragile bridge is balanced between us.

"We should eat." His voice returns to its usual controlled cadence, clipped and final. “The communal hall serves meals until sunset.”

Mira waves a hand without speaking, shaking her head, her face still tight with horror at what I did. And it’s the expression on her face that makes realization bloom sharp and cold inside me. Whatever magic helped me understand Meridian earlier is still working. Even now, without consciously reaching for it.

Unease slithers down my spine, but before I can dwell on it, my stomach betrays me with a loud rumble. Sacha’s lips twitch, the faintest glimmer of dry amusement breaking through the armor.

“Come. I’ll show you the way.”

I follow him out and along the hallway, the sound of voices growing louder. The communal hall is crowded, dozens of people in identical clothes, most too tired from their day’s work to pay attention to newcomers. The hum of conversations surrounds us as we join the line for food.

We eat quickly, without talking, focused solely on nourishment and not conversation, and then Sacha shows me the way back to the room I share with Mira.

Her eyes open when I walk in, then close again quickly. I turn to Sacha, who remains outside in the hallway.

“We’ll stay here tomorrow, while Varam and Mira go out into the city.” He hesitates for a second, then dips his head. “Sleep well.”

I close the door slowly, securing it, and then follow Mira’s example, lying down fully clothed on the bed. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to sleep, not with all the thoughts racing through my mind.

We’ve walked into the heart of the Authority. We’re surrounded by people who would kill Sacha and everyone with him, if they discovered who he is.

And somewhere in that tower, locked away, lies a ring he’s risking his life to get back.

What will happen when he reclaims it? What will he become when his power is fully restored?

And what will happen to me?

Will finding the ring somehow help me return home? Or is my connection to this world growing too strong to ever fully break free?

For just a moment, I release the grip I have on the suppression, and allow the power to stir within me. The sensation is both a relief and a revelation, like finally stretching after being cramped in one position for too long.