I blink at him. “You look terrible.”
His face crumples for half a second before he covers it with a laugh that sounds like it hurts. “That is the first thing you say to me?”
“You do.”
“You were dead.”
The words land softly, which somehow makes them worse.
I stare at him.
Corin sets the cup down with exaggerated care, as if he needs both hands free to keep himself from falling apart. “Clinically dead, if we’re being fussy about terminology. No pulse. No breath. Several seconds that I would very much like to remove from my memory with a chisel.”
My hand moves to my chest.
My heart beats under my palm.
Strong.
Too strong.
Not fast, not weak, not uncertain. Each pulse rolls through me with a depth that feels too large for one body, and beneath it is another rhythm, darker and older, moving in answer.
“Rhazek,” I whisper.
“Downstairs,” Corin says. “Pacing in a way he would absolutely deny is pacing.”
“I can hear him.”
Corin’s mouth tightens. “Of course you can.”
I push the blanket back.
He reaches for my shoulder. “I said don’t move too fast.”
“I heard you.”
“Then obey one instruction in your life.”
“I died. I feel like I have earned a little disobedience.”
“That is exactly the sort of thing you would say after dying.”
I stand.
I do not wobble.
My feet hit the floor, and strength rises through me as though the boards, the walls, the ward sigils, and the very air are passing information into my bones. The room sharpens into layers: Corin’s heartbeat, Rhazek’s breathing below, the faint buzz of ward-light in the corners, dust shifting near the window, my own pulse answering something that is not mine and is mine all the same.
Corin slowly rises too. “That is new.”
I look down at my hands. “Yes.”
“You’re glowing a little.”
“I am not.”
“You are. Very faintly. It’s tasteful, if that helps.”
