Rowan stood in the center of the wrecked lodge, hands glowing red.
Not burning.
Not in pain.
Just… lit from within.
Like something ancient had taken root beneath his skin.
Jace dropped to one knee beside him. “Rowan,” he said softly, carefully, “does it hurt?”
Rowan shook his head. “No. It feels… warm. Like when Papa used to hum to me before bed.”
I blinked.
That same hum still lived in my bones, a melody I’d murmured to lull him through sleepless nights. The idea that it echoed now—inside whatever this was—made my throat close.
Kairis, her robes ripped and discolored, hobbled toward us. She knelt next to Rowan, watching the red that flickered down his wrists and fingertips without making contact.
“Echo-borne,” she murmured. “But not corrupted.”
She extracted a polished sliver
