The walk to the Crucible of Will1 was a gauntlet of enforced serenity.
Located within its own domed rotunda west of the primary palace, the Crucible stood apart from the living quarters. To reach it, one had to traverse the Grand Colonnade, an elevated marble walkway that looked down onto the central plaza where diplomats and high-ranking functionaries went about their daily routines. The procession was purely symbolic; it reminded the court that the Kassaj was convening, and that administrative alignment would soon follow.
The corridors of the palace were cavernous, flanked by statues of the three sitting councilors, the "Architects of the Radiant Order," figures commemorated for establishing trade outposts in the southern wastes or securing the water rights of the central river basins. Val walked at a steady clip, soft leather boots clicking rhythmically against polished obsidian floor-tiles.
Servants moved along the margins of the hall like mist. They wore light grey, seamless tunics that mirrored the stone walls. As Val passed, they did not bow; protocol forbade overt displays of subservience in a society that claimed to champion collective unity. Instead, they simply froze, keeping their eyes trained downward on their work pads or cleaning conduits.
Yet as Val passed a maintenance team scouring a brass relief, a sound cut through the air.
Hmmmm.
It was low, vibrating at the floorboards like an idling cooling pump. But as Val drew closer, the frequency shifted subtly, wavering with organic breath. It was not a machine. It was a unison drone humming deep in the throats of the workers.
Val paused, casting a glance toward an older attendant. The woman’s hands stopped on the brass plate. The humming died instantly. She did not look at Val; she kept her eyes fixed squarely on the optical lens of a surveillance diode embedded in the crown of the statue above them.
They aren't afraid of me, Val realized, the cold knot in their stomach tightening. They are terrified of what happens if they acknowledge me.
Val hurried forward, the dissonance lingering in their ears.
At the far terminus of the Colonnade stood the massive double doors of the Crucible. Soaring two stories tall, they were forged from heat-tempered gold and carved with reliefs of Kira and Tama rising above a tranquil world, symbolically burning away the "unstable eras" before the union.
Standing near the threshold was Selon.
The Consort looked worn. The golden torc resting upon his collar seemed to weigh heavily on his posture, drawing his shoulders into a slight, protective slope. He was thumbing through reports on a slim glass sahje, his brow creased with tension.
"Melu," Val murmured, slowing their pace.
Selon looked up. For a fraction of a pulsi, the practiced composure slipped. His eyes were not the calm, imperious eyes of a royal consort; they were the exhausted, frantic eyes of a father navigating a minefield. He scanned Val’s face, searching for dark circles, for tremors, for any trace of the nocturnal episodes.
"You're late, Valode," Selon whispered, his voice trembling beneath the formal reprimand. He reached out, his fingers fluttering nervously as he adjusted the gold-embroidered lapel of Val’s tunic. "Your sash is crooked. If Vaelor notes even a hint of fatigue, he will recommend an immediate cognitive audit."
"I had a restless watch," Val muttered, allowing him to fuss over the cloth. "The dream... the tearing sound came back."
Selon’s fingers clamped onto Val’s collarbone with sudden, bruising intensity.
"Ashhhh," he breathed, leaning in so close Val could smell the sharp, medicinal clove of his throat lozenges over the scent of fear. "Do not speak of tearing. Do not speak of the void. Not out here, and never behind those doors."
He flicked his gaze toward the surveillance node blinking green above the archway, then looked back down into Val’s face.
"Today requires absolute steadiness, Valode. Zhajul is reviewing the border archives again. If you falter, if your focus drifts... I cannot shield you from administrative correction."
"My focus is clear," Val said softly, forcing their breathing into a steady rhythm.
"Good," Selon whispered, letting his hand drop to brush Val’s cheek, a touch that was half-affection, half-plea. "Hold to the script."
Footsteps echoed from the cross-hall. Two High Guards in white ceramic plate rounded the corner, their pulse-rifles held at parade rest.
In an instant, the anxious parent vanished.
Selon straightened to his full height. His features smoothed into a mask of regal, detached authority.
"Posture, Heir," Selon commanded in a resonant voice that carried down the vaulted corridor. "The Council does not wait."
Val locked their knees, lifting their chin to display the serene, compliant countenance expected of the Light’s chosen successor. "I am prepared, Consort."
Selon nodded curtly to the sentries. "Open the chamber."
The pneumatic seals hissed, and the golden slabs parted inward. A wall of dry, highly filtered heat washed over Val’s face, carrying the scent of warm parchment and static electricity. Beyond the threshold, the Crucible waited.
The chamber was a stark amphitheater of black volcanic stone, designed to concentrate the midday radiance channeled down through a massive prism-lens in the ceiling. There were no dark corners; every angle was mathematically illuminated to eliminate shadow.
On a raised dais stood three high-backed seats.
To the left sat Vassan Lojmon2, the overseer of Public Record and Echo Infrastructure. Draped in a cloak of shifting grey silk that baffled ambient sound, his hands rested flat upon his console, his index finger tapping an erratic, silent rhythm.
To the right sat Vassan Vaelor3, the enforcer of Energy Allocation. His skin was dry and deeply lined, with an ashen pallor that contrasted sharply with the vibrant orange veins branching along his neck, an occupational consequence of long-term thermal channeling. Every breath he drew wheezed faintly, smelling of scorched mineral dust.
In the center sat Sovajori Zhajul4.
The Head of the Council possessed an effortless, tranquil grace. His skin had a warm, bioluminescent clarity that caught the prism-light, unblemished and entirely at ease. He looked upon Val and Selon not with anger, but with the patient, paternal affection of a teacher welcoming errant students.
"Consort Selon," Zhajul said smoothly, his melodic voice carrying through the chamber without needing amplification. "And our bright Liorovaj5. You honor the circle."
Selon bowed low, far lower than a royal consort technically owed a council head. Val stiffened, mirroring the posture.
"We live to sustain the Radiant Order," Selon recited evenly.
"And order requires careful stewardship today," Vaelor rasped, pressing a silk cloth to his mouth before coughing softly. When he lowered the cloth, a faint dusting of ash clung to the weave. "The reports from the central processing stations are troubling. The regional water reclamation units are drawing more reserve power than their quotas permit."
"The population has expanded," Selon replied, lifting his chin slightly. "The river settlements along the southern borders are operating their filtration systems at maximum capacity just to keep the sediment out of the drinking lines. If we throttle their intake to feed the capital’s auxiliary grid,"
"Then they will learn resource mindfulness," Vaelor countered, his tone rational, almost instructional. "Comfort cannot precede sustainability. The expansion of our forward outposts near the Rajas6 maritime sector requires stable power margins. If the grid fluctuates, our early-warning arrays go dark."
"Rajas is an uninhabited coastal ruin," Selon pressed, taking a measured step forward. "There is nothing there but salt marshes and old stone foundations. Why divert vital residential reserves to power monitoring towers in an empty sector?"
Zhajul raised a single hand. The gesture was gentle, yet Selon silenced himself immediately.
"You view the tapestry from a single thread, Selon," Zhajul explained with calm patience. "The uncultivated zones are vulnerable to erratic elemental surges. If an uncontrolled storm or unmonitored surge builds off the northern water routes, it threatens every territory we have worked tirelessly to stabilize. The forward station at Rajas is not an imposition; it is a shield. We secure the perimeter so our citizens may sleep in peace."
Zhajul leaned forward, resting his chin upon steepled fingers, his glowing eyes fixed warmly on Selon.
"We ask only for administrative authorization, Consort. Sign the redistribution mandate. Allow us to redirect the surplus cooling reserves to the northern arrays. For the safety of the collective."
Selon’s fingers twitched at his side. Val watched him, their own heart thumping against their ribs. Ask why the surplus always comes from the river districts, Val thought. Ask why the capital never shares the burden.
But Selon did not ask. He looked at Val. He saw the way Vaelor’s hand rested casually near the ceremonial hilt at his side. He saw Prism hovering silently near the door, recording every glance.
The defiance melted out of him.
"For the safety of the collective," Selon murmured, defeated.
He stepped to the dais, lifted the stylus, and authorized the transfer.
"Thank you, Selon," Zhajul said softly. "True leadership is the willingness to bear temporary misunderstanding for long-term harmony. Now, the balcony. The citizens await their reassurance."
The transition from the sterile quiet of the Crucible to the outer staging platform was overwhelming.
Val stood behind the towering velvet curtains, listening to the swelling roar of the crowd below. It sounded like an incoming tide, vast, rhythmic, and unpredictable.
Gwen stood beside them already stationed on the platform, adjusting the pauldrons of her white armor. Her eyes searched Val’s face, catching the tremor in their hands.
"Deep breaths, Heir," Gwen murmured, her voice barely carrying over the clamor. "V?" she called out softly to catch their drifting gaze.
"They took the water," Val whispered, keeping their gaze locked forward. "They took the water from the southern lines, Gwen. Selu told them the people were already rationing, and Zhajul smiled and called it stewardship."
"The Council balances the entire continent’s infrastructure, V," Gwen said gently, placing a steadying hand between Val’s shoulder blades. "You only see the deficit here; they see the whole machine. If the outposts go dark, everyone is exposed. That is why you have to deliver this address cleanly. If the people sense hesitation from the Heir, uncertainty spreads. Reassurance is your role. Mask up."
The herald’s amplified voice rolled across the plaza.
"CITIZENS OF TSUJAN! ACCORDING TO THE SACRED ORDER OF FLAME AND LIGHT, BEHOLD YOUR LIOROVAJ!"
The curtains retracted.
The light was blinding. Kira had climbed toward mid-morning, its violet brilliance bouncing off the white marble parapets and the shimmering golden banners lining the plaza. Below, a sea of white and gold robes looked up. They were dignitaries, guild masters, and court administrators, cheering with practiced, synchronized precision.
Val approached the carved pulpit, resting both hands upon the warm stone to mask their shaking.
"Citizens of the Radiant Order!" Val projected, the elocution lessons taking over. "Today, we stand upon the threshold of an aligned future!"
The applause rose like a wave.
"The Kassaj assures us that the discipline of this watch is the harvest of the next," Val recited, the words tasting hollow on their tongue. "The expansion of our perimeter into the Rajas sector guarantees our safety. It brings resilience. It brings,"
Val choked on the syllable.
In the middle of the plaza, standing near the basin of the central sun-fountain, was an anomaly. Amidst the sea of brilliant white and saffron silk, a lone figure stood swathed in coarse, unbleached grey.
They were not applauding. They were staring directly up at Val.
And they were humming.
It was impossible that a single voice could pierce the cheering of ten thousand courtiers, yet the sound did not travel through the air. It vibrated directly inside the bones of Val’s skull.
Hmmmmmm.
The horizon warped.
For a terrifying, sickening eko, the polished white stone of Tsujan dissolved into blackened obsidian. The sky above turned to ash. The dignitaries cheering below were suddenly hollow silhouettes, screaming soundlessly as their robes turned to smoke. The tearing sound—RIIIIIP—screeched behind Val’s eyes, drowning out the sun.
Val froze. Their jaw locked.
The silence at the podium stretched.
One eko.
Two ekoru.
The cheering faltered. Confused glances rippled across the front rows. On the raised balcony behind Val, Vaelor stepped forward, his knuckles white against his sword hilt. Zhajul’s warm smile faded into a cool, assessing stare.
"Valode," Gwen’s voice hissed from behind the left pillar.
She stepped smoothly onto the dais, moving as though it were part of the choreography of statecraft. Her fingers gripped Val’s shoulder with enough force to bruise through the silk. The physical pain anchored Val’s drifting mind, dragging them out of the ash.
"The manuscript," Gwen whispered through an immaculate courtly smile, waving gracefully to the crowd. "Deliver the words, Valode."
Val blinked. The ash vanished. The pristine white marble rushed back into view.
Val swallowed against a throat coated in dry copper.
"...It brings lasting peace," Val called out, their voice cracking before regaining its trained, melodic resonance. "For the Light guides! For the Order endures! We are the flame of Tsujan, and we do not waver!"
Val raised a closed fist to their chest, completing the salute.
The plaza erupted into thunderous relief, the momentary hesitation smoothed over by spectacle.
Gwen did not let go of Val’s shoulder. She kept her grip firm, steering them smoothly away from the parapet and back into the cool shadows of the royal wing.
The tactical salon was quiet as a tomb.
Zhajul stood by the broad window, watching the crowds disperse into the administrative avenues below. Vaelor paced near the central table, his heavy ceramic boots grinding against the stone floor, faint wisps of gray smoke curling from his sleeves.
"A lapse," Vaelor rasped, his voice tight. "In full view of the assembly. The shima7 froze, Zhajul. Hesitation at the podium signals instability. If the regional trade masters see weakness in the Liorovaj, the compliance quotas will be challenged."
Val stood in the center of the hall, hands clasped, eyes lowered. Selon and Gwen stood near the perimeter, both pale.
"I experienced a sudden vertigo," Val murmured, keeping their voice small. "The glare off the parapet,"
"It was not vertigo, shima," Zhajul interrupted softly, turning from the glass. He walked over to Val, lifting their chin with two cold, immaculate fingers. "It was conflict. You are looking for a seam in a garment that is whole."
Zhajul released Val’s face, looking toward Selon with a pitying sigh.
"The Heir possesses an open spirit, Selon. A gentle heart is a virtue in a citizen, but an uncalibrated heart is a liability in a ruler. Valode lacks the temper of the forge."
Zhajul turned toward the central holotable. He swiped past the glowing cartography of Tsujan, zooming out past the eastern mountains to the jagged, crystalline borders of the coast.
Kjihan. The Kingdom of Glass.
"Acting King Romar has become increasingly bureaucratic," Zhajul remarked, his tone conversational. "He delays the implementation of our unified administrative archives. He clings to decentralized historical scrolls, claiming regional preservation. He fears that our modernization will erase his identity, when in truth, it would secure his people's energy reserves."
Zhajul looked back at Val, his smile returning, bright and completely devoid of warmth.
"You will undertake an official mission to Kjihan, Heir Valode. You will travel as the diplomatic voice of the Kassaj. You will meet with young Romar, inspect their archival facilities, and help him see the wisdom of integration."
Selon stepped forward, distress cracking through his composure. "Sovajori, sending them outside the defensive grid so soon,"
"Consider it advanced instruction," Zhajul countered, his gaze sweeping over Selon until the consort fell silent. "If Valode can shepherd a stubborn peer into the fold through patient diplomacy, their worthiness to claim the mantle of the Light will be undeniable. If not..."
Zhajul let the sentence trail off, elegant and unsaid.
"Fyn will ready the diplomatic transport for dawn," Zhajul concluded, turning back toward his councilors. "Do not disappoint the hope we have placed in you, Valode. The collective depends on your clarity."
Val bowed low, stepping backward out of the chamber.
As the heavy doors clicked shut, Val leaned their forehead against the cool stone wall of the corridor, chest heaving. Reaching into their tunic pocket, their trembling fingers found the small, smooth river stone they had hidden away weeks ago.
Hmmmm.
The humming from the plaza still echoed in the back of their mind.
"Kjihan," Val whispered to the quiet hall, their breath catching. "You want me to bring them into the light... but you want me to keep their books in the dark."
Val did not return directly to their chambers after leaving the strategy room.
The weight of the Council’s gaze clung to the silk of their robes like grease. The decree was set: at first light, the diplomatic transport would ferry them past the eastern ridge to Kjihan. Until then, Val was left alone to pace the perimeter of an immaculate cage.
The afternoon wore on with excruciating slowness, heat bleeding out of the stone as Tama descended past the western horizon. By [ F|| 5 // 12 ], the fifth Ark of the Fade was turning toward evening. Curfew was settling over the capital. The administrative towers had shuttered their blinds, and the great brass street-gates were locking into place for the night. In Tsujan, the dark was treated as an operational void; anyone caught outside the barracks or living quarters after the fifth Ark was subject to immediate patrol review.
Val took advantage of the shift. In the narrow window between garrison muster and perimeter lock, the High Guard changed shifts, leaving the secondary corridors briefly unmonitored.
Trading the gold-embroidered court robe for a plain, unadorned white tunic undergarment, Val slipped through the dressing suites and pushed through the narrow service archway leading to the Bridge of Silence8.
The glass-ribbed walkway was cold. Below, the palace courtyard was cloaked in the long, purple twilight of the Fade, the stone smelling of cooling gypsum and sea brine.
A figure was already leaning against the fourth support pillar, rolling her shoulders to loosen the stiffness of combat armor.
"You made good time, V," Gwen murmured, turning around.
She had only just stepped off the training grounds. Her breastplate was still dusted with chalk from drill practice, and her padded arming doublet smelled of leather, sweat, and rifle carbon. Her light hair was escaping its regulation braid, sticking to her forehead. Her golden eyes searched Val with immediate, protective scrutiny.
"I had to slip past the second-floor laundry," Val said, keeping their voice beneath the ambient wind. "The evening muster had the halls clear."
Gwen didn't waste time on court pleasantries. She pulled Val into an embrace that was hard, fierce, and anchoring, her calloused fingers digging into the fabric of Val’s tunic. She held on until her own ragged breathing slowed.
"I saw the deployment log on Tam'ai9 slate before evening muster," Gwen murmured, her voice tight against Val’s ear. "Kjihan. Romar’s seat. They’re really shipping you out."
"Zhajul called it an exercise in diplomacy," Val said, resting their chin on her padded shoulder. "He wants me to force Romar’s signature on the archive integration. If I come back empty-handed, they’ll review the line of succession."
Gwen drew back, her hands gripping Val’s upper arms. "Then let them review it. Let them give the sash to a cadet. Val, you don't belong in Romar's court playing politician."
"And leave Selu here alone?" Val countered softly. "You saw him in the Crucible, Gwen. He’s shrinking every day. If I step back, the Council won't just look for a new Heir. They'll dispose of the family that failed them."
Gwen looked down, her jaw clenching. "None of this adds up. None of it ever has."
She had told Val the story dozens of times, yet it always circled the same hollow center. Gwen remembered being five years old, running the barracks halls with her mother, Kjm. There had been no royal heir then just yet. Then, seemingly overnight, Selon had returned from the southern borderlands with an infant wrapped in heavy wool, grief etched so deeply into his face that he barely spoke for seasons.
They had told Gwen that the baby was her sibling, that duty bound them as kin, and for two short years, the nursery had been full of laughter. Then came the declarations. Val was proclaimed the destined Liorovaj, Selon was elevated to the acting face of the Crown, and Gwen was pulled away to the training yards to be forged into an officer of the Light Guard.
Separation of duties, Kjm had commanded. The crown belongs to the light; the sword belongs to the shield.
Gwen knew nothing of royal lineages; she only knew that the Council had taken the child she loved and placed a golden target on their chest, while handing her a rifle to guard the door.
"Selu is hiding something," Val whispered. "He nearly broke my collarbone when I mentioned the dreams. He told me never to speak of the void."
"He's trying to keep you breathing, Valode," Gwen pleaded softly, her thumb brushing Val’s temple. "The older ones... Tam'a, Melu, the councilors... they remember what the continent was like before the Accord. They remember what happened when the Elder's Court fell."
"Do you remember any of it?"
"Only pieces," Gwen murmured, her brow furrowing. "I remember stories of the bells. I remember talks of everyone gathering in the public squares because the Changing of Hands10 was supposed to happen. The old Elders were supposed to step down, the new generation was supposed to take the seats, and then... silence. The Council claimed the Elders had disappeared into the wastes. They said they were searching for them. And then the search ended, and the Council took the seats instead. I heard they worked so hard to find out but they found nothing..."
Gwen stepped back, her soldier's composure reasserting itself as a low bell chimed from the garrison tower. Curfew was initiating.
"They control the whole board, Val. The weapons, the food, the records. When you reach Kjihan, you deliver the parchment, you listen to Romar complain, and you come straight back to Tsujan. Do not dig into the glass. Just come home."
"Gwen,"
"I have the gate watch at First Light," she said softly, squeezing Val's fingers before letting go. "I'll see you off at the motor court. Go on. Move before the second bell."
She turned and vanished into the barracks corridor.
Val lingered on the bridge for a breath, the twilight wind cooling the heat in their cheeks. But their feet did not carry them back toward their bedroom. The palace felt like a mausoleum tonight; every wall was too clean, every hallway too quiet.
They needed air that hadn't been scrubbed by a machine.
Val took the narrow spiral stairs down into the West Wing courtyard. Tucked beneath the massive buttresses of the library of Radiance, this garden was one of the few places in Tsujan where the ground remained natural soil rather than polished flagstone. Deep ferns with bioluminescent blue veins crowded the base of old, moss-draped willow-oaks, casting long, shifting shadows across the dark mulch.
Val stepped off the flagstones, walking into the cool shade until the palace facade was hidden behind the foliage. They leaned against the rough bark of a willow-oak, letting their head fall back against the trunk, breathing in the damp scent of wet earth.
"You breathe like someone trying to drink an empty cup."
Val flinched, hand darting instinctively toward the small ceremonial knife at their belt.
"Peace, Heir," the voice said, soft, unhurried, and carrying a low, rhythmic cadence that seemed to rise directly from the ground. "No one with ill intent carries a trowel."
A figure separated from the shadows of the ferns.
He was kneeling in the soil, working a layer of damp compost around the base of a weeping silver-vine. He wore the coarse, grey-brown tunic of the botanical staff, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing forearms dusted with peat and dark soil. In his right hand, he held a tarnished brass hand-tool.
Val relaxed slightly, recognizing the messy, honey-brown curls and the quiet presence that usually populated the courtyard during afternoon hours.
"Groundskeeper," Val murmured, keeping their distance. "Curfew was called half an Ark ago."
"Plants don't observe Council watches," he replied, rising smoothly to his feet. He was taller than he looked when hunched over the planters, moving with a grounded, patient ease that looked bizarrely out of place within the rigid geometries of the capital. "Especially not the imported ones. The soil here has too much lime. Too much ash. It chokes the root-tips if you don't turn the mulch before the evening chill sets the ground hard."
He wiped his hands on a rough cloth tucked into his rope belt, his amber eyes catching the faint blue bioluminescence of the ferns.
Val looked at him, feeling an odd, sudden knot in their chest. It was not fear. It was an inexplicable, physical tug, like the subtle pull of water behind a newly opened sluice gate. Val had seen dozens of palace attendants, but looking at this boy standing in the dirt, the back of Val’s neck prickled with a sharp, dizzying sense of familiarity, a phantom impression that they had stood in a shadowed garden before, in a different place, under a different sky.
"You're Saje, aren't you?" Val asked softly.
He paused, the rag still in his hands. A flicker of something complicated, pain, reverence, and a profound, guarded distance, crossed his features before settling into an easy, deferential smile.
"Saje of the Conservatory staff, Heir," he said, offering a casual, low bow. "Though usually the high court doesn't bother with the names of those who shovel their compost."
"I hear you," Val admitted, stepping a few paces closer. "When I walk the upper terrace. You hum."
Saje looked at the roots at his feet, his jaw tightening by a fraction. "Old habit from the islands. Keeps the rhythm of the work steady."
"It doesn't sound like a palace work-chant," Val noted. "It sounds... like static. It drowns out the surveillance towers it seems."
Saje’s gaze snapped back to Val’s face, his amber eyes suddenly sharp, peeling back the royal silk to look directly at the person underneath. For a brief pulsi, the easygoing gardener vanished, replaced by an awareness that felt vast, heavy, and ancient.
"Sometimes," Saje said, his voice dropping an octave into a low, resonant register that vibrated against Val’s collarbone, "the world is so full of false noise that you have to make your own silence just to remember what you are."
Val took a breath, the air in their lungs suddenly feeling cool, clear, and unburdened. The phantom roar of the ocean that had haunted their dreams felt less like an impending disaster and more like a distant, patient shore.
"They're sending me to Kjihan at dawn," Val confessed, surprised at how easily the words left their lips.
"I know," Saje murmured. He set the trowel down on the low stone retaining wall, picking up an official leather folio embossed with the seal of the Master of Grounds. "Kjihan is an old place, Heir Valode. Its roots go deeper than the stone they built over them. Be careful which shelves you pull from."
"You sound like you've been there."
"I've read the requisition orders," Saje deflected smoothly, the guarded mask sliding back into place as he tapped the folio. "Funny enough my Ji offered me, against my will I may add, to take the role as your personal advisor..."
Val’s brow lifted. "Eveljn? You're Eveljni ji?"
"Chosen by your ancestors. I'm simply the next to assume the line." Saje smiled, though his eyes remained watchful, anchored to Val with an intensity that made the Heir’s heart skip an uncalibrated beat. "Get some sleep, Heir. The eastern road is long, and Driver Fyn doesn't care for delays."
Val lingered for a moment, the strange pull between them buzzing like a plucked string, before nodding quietly. Val couldn't explain why, they were slightly excited for what could come.
"Good watch, Saje."
"Good watch, Valode," he answered softly, watching them slip back toward the palace stairs.
As Val’s footsteps faded into the stone corridor, Saje looked down at the palm of his hand. A faint, golden static danced across the calloused ridges of his skin, humming with the memory of an oath sworn three lifetimes ago.
"Hold on, Rumi," he whispered to the dark soil. "We're almost out of the gate."
