He turns, gestures for me to walk with him. I do because the hall behind me still feels like it’s breathing.
As we walk, he keeps his pace slow and his voice conversational.
“If they truly thought you were dangerous,” he says, “they wouldn’t have sent a chamber of flame-bound mystics.”
“No?” I’m afraid to ask who they would—
“They’d have sent a blade.”
I blink. “That’s supposed to be comforting?”
“It’s meant to be honest.”
We walk in silence for a stretch. The air grows cooler, the stone lighter. I start to recognize some of the patterns on the walls again—twisting back toward the part of the Citadel that at least pretends to have guest rooms.
Solonar stops just before we reach the familiar curve of my hallway.
“If I were you,” he says softly, “I’d find out who your friends are. Before the Rite begins.”
I frown. “Wait, what?” Friends? Rite? But he’s already turning away, disappearing down another corridor like smoke slipping away on a gust of wind.
The door to my room is already open and Sarai is inside. She’s humming something low and rhythmic, not melodic, but soothing all the same. Her voice is soft, untrained. The kind of sound you make when you’re trying to take up space without disturbing it.
There’s a tray of food on the table. Another basin steaming gently near the wall. A change of clothes laid neatly over the bench. Sarai tucks a towel into the shelf with the kind of efficiency that says she’s beendoing this a long time. She looks up as I step inside and the door swings shut behind me.
“You’re back already.”
I try to laugh. It comes out hoarse.
“I don’t know what they expected,” I say, “but I think I disappointed them in a really interesting way.”
She watches me for a long moment. Then crosses the room and picks up the glass from the tray.
“Drink,” she says, handing it to me. “Before your thoughts catch up to your body.”
I don’t ask what’s in it. I take a sip. It is warm and sharp, like ginger and something mint-adjacent. Not bad. But not familiar either.
“Did they touch you?” she asks quietly.
“No.”
“Hurt you?”
“No.”
She nods like she already knew.
But her shoulders ease just a little.
“They talked in circles,” I say. “Asked if my shadow had ever spoken to me. If I’ve ever forgotten my name. If I’ve kissed the dark.”
Sarai’s lips twitch.
“Have you?”
“No. I mean—probably not. I would’ve remembered something that dramatic, right? I had an emo phase, but I doubt that’s what they meant.”
“Don’t be so sure,” she murmurs. “Crimson likes to blur the lines.”
