I find Saengo in the bedroom, standing before the glass balcony doors. She’s dressed in the same simple shirt and loose pants as I am, and her ragged hair looks roughly brushed. The day’s last light illuminates her silhouette against the darkening room. For the briefest of moments, the light appears almost to shine through her.

My gut clenches. I set the books on the desk and join her by the balcony. After a moment, I take her hand. Her skin is warm.

“Are you angry with me?” I ask quietly. I can easily find the answer for myself, but I resist the temptation to crack open that mental window between us. I still feel her there—I always feel her there—but the glow of her emotions is easier to ignore when it isn’t so intense. If Saengo doesn’t wish to share how she’s feeling, then it’s not for me to know.

A faint line forms between her brows. She lifts her other hand, extending it palm up to the sunlight. “I don’t know. Ever since I woke up at the teahouse, I’ve felt … strange. Not unpleasant, just weird. Like I’m being held together with sunbeams, and I could dissolve at any moment. Like those souls in the Dead Wood.”

The idea sends panic shooting through me. “What did Ronin tell you?”

“A number of things—what kind of lightwender you are and how shaman magic works. I thought maybe he was trying to put me at ease about you being shamanborn.” She drags her fingertips against the glass door, watching shadows chase the light across her knuckles. “But the more he talked about familiars, the more I began to wonder.”

Ronin didn’t tell her, then. My stomach weaves itself into knots. “About that … I have to tell you … when I brought you back, I—”

The words stick in my throat, thick enough to choke. Saengo’s fingers still against the glass.

She looks at me, her eyes dark and intense. “Am I your familiar?”

My heart races. I want to fall to my knees and beg her forgiveness. Instead, I force myself to hold her gaze and say, “Yes.”

She draws a slow, deep breath. I squeeze her hand as she struggles to control the way her entire body trembles, just faintly. Her jaw clenches tight, as if the truth is a poison curled against the cage of her teeth, and the moment it reaches her tongue, she will forever hold its bitterness in her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, heart aching. “I didn’t know.”

She tries to smile, but it wilts as soon as it forms. “How could you have?”

Silence weaves between us. It feels fragile, held together by the threads of unraveled dreams.