"I faced myself," she said simply. "The worst parts. The fears, the doubts. Everything I hated about what I'm becoming."
His hands stilled where they'd been checking her for injuries. "And?"
"And I accepted it. All of it. The darkness and the light." She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling both the warmth and the shadow resting there. "I’ve accepted that it’s part of me now. That it doesn’t dictate who I am."
He was quiet for a long moment, his hand covering hers over her chest.
"You're changing," he said finally.
"Yes."
"Into what?"
"I don't know yet." She met his dark eyes. "Does it matter?"
His hand moved to cup her face, thumb tracing her cheekbone. "No. You could become anything, and I would still—" He stopped, jaw clenching.
"Still what?" she asked, though exhaustion was making everything hazy.
"Rest," he said instead of answering. "The celebration starts at dusk and the Drak will be offended if their Shadow Walker doesn't attend."
She wanted to push, to make him finish what he'd been about to say. But sleep was already pulling her under, her body finally able to release the tension it had been holding.
The last thing she felt was his lips against her forehead, and words whispered too quietly for her to hear.
Chapter thirty-three
The Drak women who came for her didn't ask if she wanted their help. They simply arrived, carrying traditional garments and speaking in rapid bursts of their own language mixed with accented common.
"The Shadow Walker must be properly dressed," the eldest said, her scales a deep bronze that caught the lamplight. "You cannot celebrate in those rags."
Briar looked down at the practical clothes Veroc had given her for the trial. They were torn in places, stained with cave dirt and sweat, but calling them rags seemed harsh.
"I can dress myself—"
"Not in these, you can't." The younger one, scales bright green, held up what they'd brought.
The garments were nothing like the protective leather she'd worn into the cave. These were celebration clothes, and the Drak apparently celebrated with skin showing.
The top was essentially a wrapped binding of soft leather, dyed deep red, that would cover her breasts and not much else. Intricate beadwork decorated the edges, and small bones were woven throughout—honor markers, the bronze-scaled woman explained, for surviving the cave.
The skirt sat low on the hips, made of strips of leather and cloth that would move when she walked, showing flashes of leg with each step. More beadwork, more bones, and scales worked into the design.
"I can't wear this," Briar said, heat flooding her face.
"Why not?" The green-scaled woman looked genuinely confused. "It’s good craftsmanship, it was specially made for you."
"It's very... revealing."
Both Drak women laughed, a sound between a chirp and a roar.
"This is a celebration," the bronze one said. "We celebrate survival, life, a body that still moves and breathes. Hiding the body is..." she searched for the word, "an insult to being alive."
They helped her dress despite her protests. The wrappings were more secure than they looked, everything staying in place despite the minimal coverage. They braided her hair, weaving in small bones and feathers—more honors, they explained. Survivors of the cave were marked so everyone knew what they'd accomplished.
Then came the paint.
"It’s tradition," the green-scaled one said, producing pots of some sort of goop that looked like ash mixed with oil. "It represents what you faced and what you survived."
