“I’ve been having dreams,” she says finally. “Memories, I think. Things that don’t match what Lakhu told me.”
“What kind of memories?”
“You. Younger. Looking at me like...” She trails off, swallowing hard. “Like I was something precious. Like I mattered.”
“You did matter. You were everything.”
“And my brother.” Her voice catches. “I’ve been dreaming about Balroth too. But the dreams are wrong. He’s... he’s not the way I remember him. His face is twisted. His voice is cold. And he’s?—“
She stops. I watch her piece it together—the fragments, the implications, the terrible truth lurking at the edges of her returning memories.
“The person who betrayed me.” Her voice is barely audible. “The one who led me to the altar. You won’t tell me who it was.”
“No.”
“Because I already know.” Tears well in her eyes. “I just don’t want to believe it.”
I don’t confirm it. Don’t deny it. Just stand there, giving her space to reach the conclusion on her own, even though every instinct screams to gather her in my arms and shield her from the pain.
“I don’t know what’s real anymore.” The words come out broken, shattered. “Everything Lakhu told me was a lie. Everything I thought I knew about my life, my death, my family—it’s all wrong. And I can’t—“ Her voice cracks. “I can’t tell which memories are mine and which ones he planted. I can’t trust my own mind.”
I want to touch her. Want to pull her close and hold her while she falls apart. But that’s not what she needs—not yet. Maybe not ever.
“You will.” I keep my voice steady, even though my chest aches with the effort of staying still. “When you’re ready, you’ll remember everything. The real memories will feel different fromthe false ones. Stronger. Clearer. Like the difference between a painting and the thing it’s trying to capture.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re already remembering. The dreams, the fragments—that’s your mind fighting back. Breaking through what Lakhu built.” I hold her gaze, pouring every ounce of conviction I have into the words. “You’re stronger than his lies. You always were.”
She looks at me for a long moment. The tears keep falling, but something in her expression shifts—a glimmer of something that might be resolve, or might be hope.
“The person I was,” she says quietly. “The one who loved you three centuries ago. She sounds... brave. Stubborn. Like someone who didn’t break easily.”
“She was all of those things.”
“I don’t know if I’m her anymore.”
“You don’t have to be.” The words come from somewhere deep, somewhere true. “You don’t have to be who you were. You just have to be who you’re becoming.”
She stares at me. And then, so slowly I almost miss it, she nods.
“I need time,” she says. “To think. To try and... sort through all of this.”
“Take whatever time you need.”
She turns toward the door. Pauses. Looks back over her shoulder.
“Zyphon?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.” The words seem to cost her something. “For telling me the truth. Even the parts you couldn’t say.”
She’s gone before I can respond.
I stand alone in the library, surrounded by ancient texts and the weight of a lifetime of waiting, and I let myself hope that maybe—finally—the waiting is almost over.
NINETEEN
