The air in Rowan’s quarters felt pressurized, as if the room itself were a lung holding a breath it couldn't release. Ever since the forest—ever since the shards of the ancient crystal had dissolved into his skin—the world felt fragile. To Rowan, the stone walls of the Blackwood mansion now looked like wet paper, and the heartbeats of his brothers in the distant wings of the house sounded like the steady, annoying thud of drums.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight to block out the morning sun. He didn't want the light of the world; he wanted to see the light he now carried.
"Let’s see what you really are," he whispered, his voice vibrating with an unnatural resonance.
He held his hands out in front of him, palms up. At first, there was nothing but the
