The light doesn’t explode this time.
It settles.
Like something finally deciding it no longer needs to pretend it isn’t here.
The ward chamber is quiet again.
Too quiet.
Not the absence of sound—but the presence of control.
Every flickering rune along the broken infirmary walls has stabilized into a steady glow. Not repaired. Not restored.
Aligned.
That word returns to me again without invitation.
Aligned.
I am still sitting on the infirmary bed.
Rylan is still holding my hand.
But the way he is holding it has changed.
Not tighter.
More cautious.
Like he is afraid the version of me he is touching might not be the only one responding to it anymore.
“Lyra,” he says softly.
I look at him.
And I am here.
I am here.
But I am also aware of something else noticing him through
