I do not recoil.
I choose that consciously. I feel the old fear rise, ugly and immediate, whispering that something has been taken, that my brother’s humanity has been marked by infernal power because he stood beside me when disaster came calling. But Corin is standing in front of me, alive, aware, frightened beneath his wit and still himself enough to be unbearable.
I will not make my fear the first thing he has to survive.
I reach through the warmth and grip his shoulders.
The flame gutters, then steadies.
Corin goes very still under my hands.
“Do you feel stable?” I ask.
His eyes search mine, and for a moment I see the boy he must have been before charm became armor, before survival taught him to make jokes faster than people could aim pity.
“Yes,” he says.
“Truth.”
He nods firmly. “Truth.”
I hold his gaze a moment longer, then nod back. “Good.”
His shoulders drop, barely, but I feel it under my palms.
Rhazek steps closer. “Sable.”
I do not turn. “We are going to talk about your version of honesty later.”
“Yes.”
“And yours,” I say to Corin.
He grimaces. “Wonderful. A family tribunal.”
“Do not sound so relieved.”
His mouth curves, weak but real. “I would never.”
The small flame in his palm folds inward and vanishes, leaving no burn, no smoke, no scar. Corin closes his hand over the absence as if he can keep it contained by making a fist.
I squeeze his shoulders once before letting go. “No more shrugging it off as porridge.”
“A devastating loss for porridge mythology.”
“Corin.”
“All right.” He exhales, glancing toward the wrecked target. “No more porridge.”
Rhazek surveys the splintered remains with a dark, thoughtful expression. “You will stop training alone.”
Corin lifts his brows. “There he is.”
“I mean it.”
“I assumed.”
I turn to Rhazek. “He’s not your soldier.”
