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Behind me, the rustle of fabric continues, then the exhale of his breath.

“Are you covered?” I ask, a smile tugging at my lips despite myself.

There’s a pause, then, “You can turn around.”

I do, my gaze meeting his before it drops to the collar at his throat.

It gleams cruelly in the firelight, and shadows writhe in the carved marking on the dark metal. My stomach twists, and the guilt that has been sitting in my chest constricts.

I’ve known what it does to him—how it suppresses his power, how it must feel like a constant weight pressing down on him. And yet I’ve left it there, even now, knowing the cost.

I move to my pack, digging through its contents until my fingers close around the gravers I stole in Intana.

“I don’t expect you to trust me,” I say as I straighten, tools clutched in my hands, and meet his gaze. “But I think I know a way to nullify the collar. At least until we can remove it.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“The goiteía—they’re suppressing marks, right?” I force myself to hold his stare, to not let my expression waver. I could tell him of my own twisted history with a collar like his, but that’s not a part of myself I’m willing to share.

“I haven’t seen them.”

Of course, there haven’t exactly been many mirrors along the way. Even the bathing chamber at the inn in Vaith was absent one.

“They are,” I say, confirming it for him. “And if I can damage them enough, it should disrupt the effect.”

He remains silent, only the sound of the storm outside filling the space. Then, finally, he exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Do it.”

I nod, swallowing hard as I move closer to him. He sits down near the fire, tilting his head to give me better access to the collar.

I kneel behind him. “This might be uncomfortable.”

His hands curl into fists where they rest on his thighs. “It’s all right.”

Taking a deep breath, I press the tip of the graver to the first mark.

The sound of the storm outside fades into the background as I carve into the collar, determined to break its hold.

By morning, the worst of the storm has passed, reduced to a persistent drizzle. Rain drums steadily against the rocks, a rhythmic patter that echoes through the cavernous space.

As Lyxander steps into the cave, his boots slick with mud and his cloak dripping, there’s something different about him. He pushes back his hood, droplets clinging to the dark strands of his hair as he shakes off the worst of the wet. His movements are lighter, less burdened after I carved and scored until the goiteía were unrecognizable, and there’s a new light in his eyes—a spark that wasn’t there before.

“Klem and Rios are fine,” he says as he crosses the cave and hangs the damp cloak from one of the protruding roots near the smoldering coals of the fire. “We should wait for the rain to pass.”

I nod, pulling my blanket closer around my shoulders and holding my hands over the coals.

His gaze lingers on me before he adds another cluster of tree roots to the pile and coaxes them to burn. “While you’re sitting there, practice.”

I scowl at the word.

Practice, I’ve come to learn, means meditate.

Since removing my ring, one thing has become painfully clear: The theïkós I feared setting free is fickle. In fury, it surges. In terror, it claws. In grief, it comes like a tide with no shore. But when I reach for it in the quiet, it slips through my fingers. I’d wondered about that during my first few attempted lessons with Lyxander—why my magic once felt so eager to respond the few times I’d tapped into it yet now seems so much harder to reach. He suggested it might be because I had denied it for so long, isolating myself from something that was meant to be an intrinsic part of me.

So, meditation.

Sighing, I close my eyes, focusing on the crackle of the flames, the patter of the rain, the quiet movements of Lyxander—and the wind weaving through it all.

Then I turn inward, searching for where my theïkós waits. Not in the flare of anger, but in the breath before it; not in the gale, but in the pause between inhales.