“Oh,” Barclay said awkwardly. He didn’t mean to dig up painful memories for Yasha. And when he dwelled on it, he realized he didn’t know that much about Yasha at all. Which was a shame, because he liked to think that they were friends. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Yasha stared into the bonfire. “It’s fine. It was a long time ago.”

“Is it all right if I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

Barclay didn’t want to admit that he’d spied on Yasha once—that would be far too humiliating. And so he chose his words carefully. “I’ve always thought our types of Lore were alike. If you don’t touch fire, it still burns. That makes it wild, like the wind is wild. And I was wondering how you learned to control it.”

Yasha tilted his head curiously. “You know, there’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you. If that’s all right.”

“It is,” Barclay said slowly, worried he’d said the wrong thing again.

“If your home in the Elsewheres is so scared of Beasts, how did you manage to bond with a Lufthund?”

As though he’d heard his name, Root stood up from his resting spot near the fire and padded toward them. Barclay smiled and scratched him behind the ear.

“It was an accident,” Barclay explained. “I’d gone into the Woods, and Root showed up. I thought he would eat me, but instead, he bonded with me.”

Yasha clenched his jaw, like he was more than stern. Like he was angry. “If such a powerful Beast chose you, then how could you ever worry you won’t be able to control your Lore? You were made for wind Lore. Doesn’t matter if you’re an Elsie or not.”

Barclay had known this. He’d felt this, every time he rode with Root, every time dirt caked beneath his fingernails, every time he felt wild or free. And being chosen by a Beast was special, even among Lore Keepers. But at some point since arriving at the Sea, he’d forgotten how special it was.

What made Barclay a Lore Keeper wasn’t that he was Runa’s apprentice, or that he could always control his powers, or that he no longer thought like an Elsie. Barclay was a Lore Keeper because Root had chosen him, and he had chosen Root.

Swallowing down his nerves, Barclay grabbed the broken shell from his pocket. This time, he didn’t even bother reciting anything to calm himself.

He locked eyes with Root. And he only told himself one thing.

I still choose Root.