“High stress,” I echo faintly. My pulse races. Confusion and disbelief war within me. Can this really be the meaning of our connection?

The light of Saengo’s candle burns strong from behind my mental window. I resolve to keep it shut. Her emotions should remain her own.

“But she’s human.”

“Exactly.” Although his voice is quiet, the word and all its implications spear through me. “No human familiar has ever before been recorded.”

“Then how can you be sure?”

“You wouldn’t have been able to perform magic last night without a familiar. It is the simplest explanation, and yet, not simple at all. It is unprecedented.”

“Will she be okay? Is she … did I hurt her?” My chest aches with the possibility.

“She will be tied to you and your magic so long as the bond remains.”

By racing after Jonyah that day, I’d upended both our futures. I rub my fingers, warm from the tea, over my temples. “This is … a lot.”

“I can imagine.” He stands.

I stiffen, but he only climbs the steps up to the dais and the enormous fireplace there. His clothes are simple but finely made, a floor-length black jacket with gray accents over a matching shirt and pants. He wears a gray sash knotted at his back and a second sash, embroidered with his sigil in black, knotted at the front. A sword is belted at his hip, the scabbard and hilt plain enough to indicate its presence isn’t mere decoration.

His ears are unusual. The tips taper up into a noticeable point. Frowning, my hand wanders to my own ears. I don’t recall if the healer from the Valley or the shamans from the teahouse had such a distinguishable feature. But then again, the healer’s ears had been hidden behind tangles of hair, and I’d been too busy trying not to get killed by the other shamans.

“Many stories about soulguides, often altered at the will of those telling them, have been passed down from the time of Sury. That one should, at last, again appear can only be taken as an omen.”

What kind of omen? I hesitate to say it out loud. Most stories are simply that—stories. Tales to inspire awe and nostalgia for the heroes of old, that such heroes might one day rise again.

A draft from somewhere in the large room rustles the hem of Ronin’s robe and breathes life into the dying embers in the fireplace. With his dark hair and plain features, it’s easy to imagine that I would have passed him by in Vos Talwyn, brushing him off as just another visiting lord or even a high-ranking soldier.

But that would be untrue. Something about him draws the gaze, demanding acknowledgment of his presence. He commands attention without speaking a single word.