I slide off the bed and pace to the window barefoot, the cold stone biting at my feet. Outside, the Interstice hangs in that strange, suspended twilight.
Safe.
That’s what they call it.
But safe is never a feeling. Safe is a decision other people make around you.
I press my forehead to the glass, inhale slowly, and try to unclench my hands.
Relief is there—real and immediate. Bramrik and Elowen are alive and well, close, coming back.
But relief doesn’t erase the second thing that always rides beside it.
Want.
Because the second Soryn said their names, my body lit up like it had been waiting for permission to be honest.
Bramrik.
I still remember the weight of his hands when he used to correct my stance—never lingering, never inappropriate, just firm enough that my bones listened.
