Another pause.
Then he nods once, sharp and definitive. “Then I hold.”
“Yes.”
That’s enough.
I move awayfrom the line without looking back, slipping through the inner structures where the noise dulls just enoughto think. The air here is thicker with smoke, the scent of burned wood and damp earth settling into the lungs, grounding in a way that almost feels like clarity.
The magic doesn’t rise cleanly.
It presses.
I pull it inward first, drawing it through bone and breath, forcing it into shape rather than letting it take one. The first shift hits deep, a dull compression along my spine as my posture adjusts, my center of gravity dropping lower, heavier. My shoulders broaden under the strain, the alignment of my body shifting in increments that feel wrong until I force them to settle into something usable.
I steady my breathing, controlling the pace of it as the change spreads outward, tightening and loosening along muscle and skin in a way that demands focus.
Not too much.
Not too fast.
Control it or lose it.
A reflection catches briefly in a warped piece of metal propped against a wall, the image distorted but clear enough to confirm the result.
Not me.
Good.
I roll my shoulders once, testing the weight, letting the unfamiliar shape settle into something that moves instead of resists.
“Subtle,” Skot’s voice says from behind me, dry enough to cut through the moment.
I don’t turn. “It doesn’t need to be.”
He steps closer, his gaze moving over me with quiet precision. “You’re choosing proximity.”
“Yes.”
“And risk.”
“Yes.”
“And abandoning everything you built.”
“Yes.”
A pause follows, brief but deliberate.
“Good,” he says.
I glance at him.
“You’re not stopping me.”
“No,” he replies. “I’m accounting for it.”
“How?”
