‘The candles,’ I say to Zoric. ‘Was that you?’

He nods. ‘I know she likes the stars,’ he says.

I think about that night on the Pandion. The warmth of her hand in mine.

‘She does,’ I reply.

‘I’ll let you be,’ he says. ‘Vox for me when you’d like to go back, lord.’

I nod, and he goes, closing the door behind him. With the bulkhead sealed, it is silent in the room save for the flickering of the candles and the breathing of Sofika’s machine. I take an ungraceful step closer to her, only then noticing the torn scrap of parchment tacked to the machine. The script on it is dense, and hurried. Illithian. I know enough of Yumia’s home world and customs to recognise it as a warding script. One for safety. It’s a kindness, as much as it is for Zoric to light the candles. A sign that no matter what they might think of me, both members of my retinue care deeply for Sofika Vorros.

‘I should have told them sooner,’ I say, though Sofika cannot hope to hear it.

‘You couldn’t have, Ahri.’

My father’s voice echoes, though the room is too small to carry it far. He steps up to stand beside me, looking up at Sofika’s machine. The candlefire reflects in his eyes, making them even more golden.

‘They react badly now. Imagine how it would have been when the grief was raw,’ he says. ‘Sorrow can make people do terrible things.’

‘I think that might be the truest thing I have ever heard,’ I say.

He nods. ‘The light makes her look whole again.’

‘Like she was before,’ I say.

‘As she will be again, after Dimmamar.’

I glance at my father. There is little point in using the pendant to determine if I am awake or asleep, as it doesn’t seem to matter where he is concerned.

‘You shouldn’t be here.’

He smiles and it blurs his edges, making him hazy like the dawnrise, or an overexposed pict. ‘I told you before, I am wherever you go.’

‘Because we only leave one another behind by choice,’ I reply.

My father nods.

My eyes go back to Sofika, sleeping. The candles flicker and wend, casting long, shifting shadows. ‘I know that you aren’t real,’ I say. ‘That you are made up of my memories, and dreams, but I need to tell you something.’

My father laughs softly, but he doesn’t challenge me. ‘What is it?’

I think of that dawnrise, so long ago. Of the spire tower and his still form. Of birds, turning their wings.

‘I saw your death,’ I tell him. ‘The night before it happened. But I kept it to myself. I convinced myself it was just a dream.’