Tyler’s hand on the small of my back felt like permission and a tether at once. He walked behind me down the hospital corridor, Alaric ahead like a commander, every step pushing me toward a decision I had not yet agreed to make.
Normally Tyler’s touch would have soothed me. He had that way—steady, sure, practical—that turned every small panic into a problem that could be fixed with a plan or a bandage. Tonight his palm on my spine felt like pressure. Not a comfort but a shove.
Keep moving, Elara.
Don’t stop, Elara.
Don’t think too hard, Elara.
It made my skin crawl.
We filed into Sage’s room—the machines humming, the white light sterile and thin. The witch stood by the bed, hollow eyes etched with grief that made her look older than her hands. She set the grimoire on the foot of the
