I nod slowly. “Like Christopher.”
“Yes.”
“And it’s permanent?”
“Yes.”
The word lands with weight.
Permanent.
I glance down at my hands, at the rune resting against my skin, then back at Boone. He’s watching me now, openly, as if bracing for something.
A confession, maybe. Or a question.
Instead, I feel a sudden, sharp fear—not of him, not of the magic, but of myself.
Because the thought that rises, unbidden and undeniable, is notthat’s terrifying.
It’scould I do that?
Worse—would I want to?
My chest tightens.
This is too much. Too soon. I’ve known Boone for weeks.Weeks. If I were watching a friend spiral this hard over someone they’d just met, I’d want to sit them down and stage an intervention.
Slow down, I’d say.You don’t even know if this will last.
And yet my body, my instincts, some deeper part of me I don’t have language for, is humming with certainty.
This matters.
Thissticks.
I swallow hard and force a smile. “So. Runes.”
Boone blinks, thrown by the abrupt shift. “Runes.”
“Yes. Let’s—let’s talk about the rune. Specifically. How it works. Because my brain is on fire, and I need something concrete before I implode.”
He watches me for a beat longer, then nods. “All right.”
Relief loosens the tightness in my chest.
He reaches out and turns the rune gently in my palm, his fingers careful, reverent. “They’re keyed to intent as much as form. This one will allow you passage through certain wards. It will mark you as protected, not prey.”
“Useful,” I murmur.
“Yes.”
“And it responds to me because…?”
“Because you’re walking with me.”
The simplicity of the statement is disarming.
“Does it respond to everyone you walk with?” I ask.
