## Chapter 209 - The Shape He Chose The mountain bells stopped shortly before dawn. Their absence woke Thomas more completely than their ringing had. He lay beneath a borrowed blanket near the upper cistern, listening to water enter the restored basin in a thin, steady thread. The old galleries around him held the breathing of more than forty people. Some slept quietly. Others turned often on stone softened by blankets and clothes. A child coughed twice in the lower chamber, then settled after one of the healers murmured to her. No chain answered the mountain. No black glass tightened around a throat or drew a body upright for work. Thomas could feel the most fragile sleepers through the narrow field of Status he had allowed himself to keep. Cael’s heart held its own rhythm. The young elf whose skull had been restored slept deeply. Orsa’s rebuilt shoulder remained warm and inflamed from use, but not dangerously so. The three people who had kept their modifications were stable within individual shields that blocked the mountain’s remaining queries. The knowledge should have comforted him. Instead, Thomas remained awake beneath the weight of having all of them inside his awareness. He released Status. The people did not vanish. Their breathing remained. Water continued entering the cistern. Someone in the lower gallery shifted a pot and whispered an apology when bronze touched stone. The world became smaller without becoming less real. Isha lay beside him, facing the gallery rather than the wall. Her eyes opened as soon as his spell faded. “How long?” she asked. “I do not know.” “That was not the question.” Thomas turned his head toward her. She had not tied back her hair before sleeping. Pale strands lay across the folded cloak beneath her cheek, almost colourless in the dim light of the nearest orb. Her expression held no alarm, but he knew how much attention sat behind the stillness. “Since the bells stopped,” he said. Isha listened to the silence outside the cistern. “They stopped some time ago.” “Yes.” “Were you watching everyone?” “Only the people still at risk.” Her gaze remained on him. Thomas corrected himself. “Most of the people still at risk.” “That is a large word to hide inside only.” He looked toward the dark ceiling. Rank S remained beneath his magic. The new reserve no longer felt like a quantity he carried. It was closer to depth: present whether he touched it or not, extending farther than ordinary spell use could reveal. Even after the mass healing, the feast, the cistern work and the shields maintained through the night, he could not honestly say the pool felt diminished. It had become possible to keep everyone within reach. That did not make it right to do so. “I do not know how to stop being aware that I can,” he said. Isha moved nearer beneath the blanket. She rested one hand against his chest, not over the heart exactly, but close enough to feel his breathing. “Then we should go somewhere you are not responsible for forty people.” “They are still here if I leave.” “Yes.” “Kelda and Erenai—” “Are here. Merra and Eldan are here. Five people with practical healing experience are here. The shields will remain for hours without you staring at them.” Thomas knew all of that. Knowing had become a weak answer. “I should check the upper fracture again.” “You checked it before sleeping.” “The mountain bells changed.” “The stone did not.” “We do not know that.” Isha’s hand slid from his chest to his wrist. She did not tighten her fingers. She did not need to. “Thomas.” He turned back to her. “You have reached the point where every fear can be answered by another spell,” she said. “That does not mean every fear should be.” The cistern remained quiet around them. Thomas heard the concern beneath her control. It was not only fear that he might exhaust himself. Rank S had made that particular fear less immediate. Isha was watching the shape of what might replace exhaustion when power no longer imposed a natural stopping point. “I need a little time,” he said. “Yes.” “Not here.” “I know.” He hesitated. Pocket Island had been safe before because it was small, private and removed from other people’s claims. It had also become dangerous in its own way. They had promised not to use it to avoid difficult roads, hard conversations or consequences merely because leaving was frightening. This was not leaving the island behind. It was stepping outside it briefly enough to return as someone who could still choose how to stand. “I want two days,” Thomas said. Isha’s brows rose slightly. “Outside time?” “Inside. An hour or two here, if I set the relation correctly.” “You cannot set it correctly.” “Approximately.” “That is a better word.” He looked at their joined hands. “I want you to come.” Isha’s thumb moved once across his wrist. “That was already understood.” --- Kelda disliked the proposal for several practical reasons before accepting it for one emotional one. They spoke in the upper gallery beside the cleaned basin while most of the workers still slept. Erenai stood with them, fully dressed despite the hour, her short bow unstrung against the wall. The female elf’s restored ear was turned toward the drainage passage, though the mountain had remained silent since before dawn. “You will be gone somewhere I cannot reach,” Kelda said. “Again.” “Yes,” Thomas replied. “And the island may begin ringing every piece of metal it owns while you are absent.” “Yes.” “And you cannot tell me precisely whether one hour or three will pass.” “No.” Kelda folded her arms. Thomas waited. He had considered presenting the safeguards first: the long-duration shields, the food and water, the repaired cistern, the workers’ leadership, the fault route through the drainage cut. That would have turned the request into an argument that Kelda could accept only by disproving his preparation. Instead he said, “I do not think I should go uphill in my current state.” Kelda’s expression changed. Not softened. Opened. “That is the useful reason,” she said. Erenai looked between them. “Where are you going?” Thomas had not brought her into the secret of Pocket Island. She had witnessed the passage station, Holy Purge, Rank S and the freedom of the lower hands. Trust did not require surrendering every boundary. “A private refuge,” Isha said. “It is not on this island, and its method is not something we disclose.” Erenai touched the pale skin beneath her restored ear, perhaps remembering how often demons had treated knowledge as something bodies owed. “How long will you be absent?” “A few hours at most,” Thomas said. “Possibly less.” “And from your perspective?” “About two days.” Erenai stared at him. Kelda sighed. “That is not the strange part.” “I was deciding whether to ask.” “Do not.” Erenai considered the cistern galleries, the sleeping workers and the dark passage beyond the basin. “Will your shields remain?” “Yes.” “Can you be recalled if they fail?” Thomas shook his head. “Not reliably.” “Then I do not like it.” “Neither do I,” Kelda said. Isha leaned against the basin wall. “Thomas reached Rank S yesterday while healing a yard full of people. He has not had a private hour since. If he remains here, he will continue using the existence of danger as permission not to understand what happened.” Erenai looked at Thomas more directly. He did not disagree. “What do you need us to do?” she asked. “Nothing you are not already doing,” Thomas said. “Merra and Eldan hold the galleries. The healers know who remains vulnerable. The shield over the upper fracture will strengthen if struck. The two entrance shields will warn Kelda if anything touches them.” “I know the mountain tones,” Erenai said. “If they change, I will record the order and wake everyone who needs waking.” Thomas nodded. “Thank you.” Her gaze sharpened. “That is gratitude, not debt?” “Yes.” “Good.” Kelda waited until Erenai had gone to speak with Merra before turning back to Thomas. “Two days,” she said. “Approximately.” “One or two hours here.” “Yes.” “No mountain moving.” Thomas glanced upward. Kelda pointed one thick finger at him. “You looked at it yesterday.” “I am not moving the mountain.” “No building a second island.” “I cannot create matter.” “That answer leaves too much room.” Isha’s mouth curved. Thomas said, “We will rest and practise contained spells.” “Contained by what?” “The island.” Kelda looked unconvinced. “Contained by Thomas’s judgement,” Isha amended. “That is the part under repair.” Thomas accepted the judgement. Kelda drew him into a brief, hard embrace that pressed his face against the upper edge of her armour. She released him before he had fully returned it. “Come back able to stand on ordinary ground,” she said. Then she took Isha’s forearm. Isha clasped hers. “He will,” she said. The certainty frightened Thomas a little. Isha heard it. She looked at him after Kelda turned away. “Not because I can command the outcome,” she said quietly. “Because you asked for help before leaving.” That made the certainty bearable. --- They opened Pocket Island from a narrow side chamber where the stone held no black glass and only Kelda could see the doorway. Thomas set the time relation before casting. Not precisely. The spell did not accept numbers like a clock or an account ledger. It understood intention through shape: enough private time for two full days, little more than a watch outside, a return before the cistern’s next major decision. The distinction between refuge and absence mattered to it. The doorway appeared in the stone. Sunlight entered the dark chamber. Beyond lay pale sand, low flowering plants and the small green interior of the island. Clear water touched the crescent beach in patient waves. The central rise stood among close-set trees no taller than a modest house, and the dark rock lip on the far side caught white light along its wet edge. The opening cost more mana than any ordinary spell. At Rank S, Thomas felt the expenditure as a deep draw rather than danger. The new reservoir lowered, but its far edge remained beyond easy measure. Pocket Island still demanded respect. It had not become a casual room merely because Thomas had become larger. Isha stepped through first. Thomas followed. The doorway closed behind them. For several breaths neither moved. The air held no sulphur, ash or black-glass cold. Nothing beneath the ground asked for names, weight, work or permission. The sea contained no submerged passage station. The trees leaned toward ordinary sunlight rather than Hell’s Peak. Their previous camp remained near the central rise. A flattened patch of grass marked where bedrolls had lain. Three stones formed a small hearth, though no ash remained after Thomas’s last careful cleaning. A folded canvas and two blankets rested beneath a low shelter made from imported poles. The island had kept them without decay, but not without presence. They looked used because they had been used. Isha put down her pack. Thomas began to cast Cleanse over the shelter. She caught his hand. “No.” He looked at her. “You have been here for seven breaths.” “The canvas is damp.” “It is beside the sea.” “It will mildew.” “Not in the next hour.” Thomas let the spell go. Isha kept hold of his hand. “What do you want?” she asked. He had prepared several sensible answers: sleep, food, privacy, training, time without the mountain. None reached the actual request. “I want to be your apprentice today.” Her expression did not change immediately. He continued before caution made the words smaller. “Not the public cover. Not because I cannot decide. I want you to decide ordinary things for me for one day. When I eat. When I sleep. Whether I am allowed to cast. I want to be…” He stopped. “What?” Thomas looked toward the small sea. “The person I was when you knew more than I did.” Isha was quiet. “You mean when you were fourteen, frightened, injured, and separated from your family?” “No.” “That person is included whether you intend him or not.” Thomas lowered his gaze. “I know.” She released his hand only to place both palms against his face, lifting it until he looked at her. “Say the part you are ashamed of.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I want to be smaller.” The words remained between them. Isha did not answer them with reassurance. Her thumbs rested beneath his cheekbones. Thomas felt the steadiness in her hands, the old certainty of someone who had held his fevered head beside a woodland road before either of them knew what he would become. “Smaller than what?” she asked. “Yesterday.” “Yesterday was work.” “Smaller than Rank S.” “That is a category.” “Smaller than the person who can feel forty bodies and keep them alive at once. Smaller than the person who can look at a mountain and know it is no longer impossible.” Isha’s eyes tightened. Thomas wished he had not said the last part. He did not take it back. “I want one day when you tell me to eat and I eat. You tell me to sleep and I do not decide someone else needs me first. You call me your apprentice, and I do not have to hear it as a lie we tell strangers.” Her hands moved from his face to his shoulders. “You want to submit your choices to me because choosing has become frightening.” “For one day.” “That can become a very beautiful way to disappear.” “I know.” “Do you?” “Yes.” Isha watched him long enough that he began to feel the sun warming the back of his neck. Then she stepped closer. “Today,” she said, “you may be my apprentice because you are asking as Thomas, not because Rank S has made Thomas inconvenient.” He breathed out. “You may refuse me. You may change your mind. If you use obedience to avoid answering something I need answered, I will stop the game and make you speak as my partner.” “Yes.” Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “That sounded automatic.” Thomas almost apologised. Isha saw it coming. “Try again.” “I understand. I want that.” “Better.” She took his pack from him and set it beside hers. “First instruction.” Thomas waited. “Take off your boots.” He looked down. The sand was warm and clean around them. Isha folded her arms. “Is there difficulty?” “No.” “Then why are you still wearing them?” Thomas sat and removed his boots. “Good,” she said. “Now the coat.” He obeyed. The outer layers had become necessary on the western island, where ash entered every seam and the air changed between damp heat and sulphurous cold. Here, stripped to a light shirt and trousers with bare feet in the sand, Thomas felt younger without feeling returned to childhood. Isha took the coat, folded it badly on purpose, and placed it on top of the pack. “You folded that wrong.” She looked at him. Thomas closed his mouth. “Your second instruction is not to correct my folding.” “That may be beyond Rank S.” “Then the ranking system remains useful.” Her humour did not erase the request. It gave him room to inhabit it. Isha pointed toward the sea. “Wash.” “I can use Cleanse.” “You are forbidden to cast until I say otherwise.” Thomas looked at the clear water. “It will be cold.” “Your hardship is considerable.” He walked into the shallows. The sea was cool rather than cold. Small waves moved around his ankles, then his knees. The sandy bed remained visible beneath the water. No current pulled toward a broken coast. Nothing large moved below. Thomas went deeper until he could swim. Isha followed a few minutes later, leaving her bow and outer clothes beside his. She entered the water without complaint and passed him easily, her restored body moving with the clean coordination of an elf trained from youth to trust balance, breath and distance. Thomas tried to catch her. She allowed him near enough to believe he might. Then she turned beneath his arm, caught him around the waist and used his own movement to send him into the water. He surfaced coughing and laughing. Isha floated several paces away. “Bad apprentice.” “You cheated.” “I am older, stronger, quicker and more experienced. You knew the terms.” “You are not stronger magically.” The words escaped before he considered them. Isha’s smile remained, but something behind it changed. Thomas stopped laughing. She swam back to him. “No,” she said. “I am not.” The island sea moved gently between them. Isha placed one hand against his wet hair and pushed it back from his forehead. “If you decided I would not touch you, I could not reach you now,” she said. “A shield would stop me. Levitate might put you beyond me. Form could place half the island between us. You could leave through a doorway I cannot open.” “I would not.” “That is not the point.” Thomas looked away. Isha caught his chin. “Do not make yourself smaller to protect me from knowing what you are.” “I am not trying to protect you.” “Then whom?” He did not answer. She knew. “Thomas, my strength was never a contract that required you to remain weaker. My authority was never honest because I could physically compel you.” “You could.” “At fourteen, perhaps.” “Now, if I did not use magic—” “And why would we pretend your magic is not part of you?” The question struck closer than he expected. Isha continued more softly. “I am still stronger than you in this water. I am still quicker. I know more of the world, more of people, more of a battlefield before magic decides it. I have lived longer, made more mistakes and learned from some of them. None of that becomes worthless because you can destroy a lesser demon before I loose a second arrow.” Thomas’s throat tightened. “Some of it becomes less necessary.” “Yes.” She did not lie for his comfort. “That frightens me,” she said. “There are dangers from which I cannot place my body between you and the blow. There are decisions where Kelda and I may see the wrong answer while you have enough power to make it permanent.” “I would listen.” “I know. That is why we remain important.” Thomas met her gaze. Isha’s hand moved from his chin to the back of his neck. “You are not safe because I can overpower you,” she said. “You are safe with me because you know I will let you remain a person when being useful would be easier.” The water reached just below their shoulders. Thomas moved nearer and rested his forehead against hers. “For today,” he said, “can I still be the apprentice?” Isha kissed him once, slowly. “For today,” she replied. “And because you asked properly, I will be severe.” Thomas smiled. “That sounds dangerous.” “It should.” --- Isha made him gather greens for breakfast without magic. Pocket Island grew several edible plants they had tested during their earlier stay. Thomas knew which leaves were safe, though he remained slower at finding them than Isha. She followed behind him with a small basket and rejected anything picked carelessly. “That one is bruised.” “It is going into food.” “It was still attached to a living plant.” Thomas placed the leaf aside. “You have eaten roots created from nothing.” “Created food begins as food. This began as a leaf you damaged.” “I repaired a person’s pelvis yesterday.” “And today you are learning to pick breakfast.” The scale of the contrast should have embarrassed him. Instead it steadied something. They ate beneath the low shelter. Isha allowed Create Food only after Thomas had washed, gathered greens, dried himself in the sun and sat where she directed. The spell produced flatbread, soft cheese, eggs with the island greens folded through them and two small bowls of fruit. Thomas reached for the larger bowl. Isha moved it beyond him. He looked at her. “Which is mine?” “The other.” “They are almost identical.” “Then your loss is survivable.” He took the smaller bowl. Isha watched him eat several bites before touching her own food. “What?” Thomas asked. “You followed an instruction that had no practical reason.” “That was the point.” “Partly.” She leaned one shoulder against the shelter pole. “What did it feel like?” “Comforting.” “Only?” Thomas considered. “A little frightening.” “Why?” “Because I wanted the instruction to matter more than whether it was sensible.” Isha nodded. “That is why this lasts one day.” He looked at her. She held out one hand. Thomas put his bowl down and placed his hand in hers. “I enjoy your trust,” she said. “I enjoy that you respond when I use that voice. I enjoy being stronger than you in ways the world understands, and sometimes in ways it should not. I am not ashamed of any of that.” Thomas felt warmth move through him that had nothing to do with the sun. Isha’s thumb traced his knuckles. “But I will not let pleasure turn your surrender into proof of love.” “It is not proof.” “What is it?” “A gift.” Her fingers closed around his. “Yes.” They finished breakfast. Isha ordered him to sleep. Thomas objected that it was still morning. She pointed to the blanket. He lay down. She sat with her back against the central rise and drew his head into her lap. Thomas turned onto one side, face toward her, and felt her fingers enter his damp hair. The island contained no one else. No workers. No demons. No bells. No system waiting beneath the ground to interpret his presence. Thomas’s shields were not needed. The sky required no boundary. He slept before he had finished noticing the absence. --- When Thomas woke, the light had changed. The sun stood past its highest point. Isha remained where she had been, though the angle of her legs had shifted and her bow now lay across the grass within reach. She had braided part of his hair badly enough to be deliberate. Thomas lifted a hand toward it. Isha caught his wrist. “You were instructed to sleep.” “I have.” “You were not instructed to repair the evidence.” “How long?” “Several hours.” Thomas sat up slowly. No spell had warned him. No distant cry had entered Known Presence. Pocket Island had held them outside the immediate weight of the western mountain without pretending the mountain had ceased to exist. His mana had recovered fully through the island’s loose ambient flow, even without deliberate Channel Mana. Rank S sat beneath it, calm and terrible. Isha unbraided the small section of hair before he could. “Now you may cast.” Thomas looked toward the rock edge. “Training?” “After you tell me what happened yesterday.” He had expected the question. Expectation did not make speech easy. They walked to the beach and sat where the small waves reached close enough to darken the sand without touching their feet. Isha drew one knee up and wrapped both arms around it. Thomas remained beside her, close but not leaning. “I reached Rank S,” he said. “I observed that.” “I healed everyone who permitted it.” “You did.” “I can still feel the shape of the spell.” “Not the people?” “No. The way Greater Heal held them separately. Before, healing many people meant spreading one intention and trying not to make it too broad. Now the spell can keep each person distinct.” “That sounds useful.” “It is.” Isha waited. Thomas looked out across the small sea. “I hated how easy it became.” The words stayed exposed. He continued. “Before the rank changed, I was afraid I would run out of mana before I reached everyone. Then the pool opened and that fear became almost absurd. It was not that I could save them. It was that I could save them and still have enough power left to do it again.” “Why is that hateful?” “Because nothing stopped me.” “The workers stopped you.” “The people who refused, yes.” “Caron stopped you at the cliff settlement.” “Yes.” “Kelda stopped you from repairing the cistern dishonestly. I stopped you from feeding the workers until the whole island knew where they were.” Thomas pressed his fingertips into the sand. “Those are other people stopping me.” “Yes.” “What happens when you cannot?” Isha was quiet for a while. “Then your judgement must be enough.” “What if it is not?” “That question did not begin at Rank S.” “No. But the consequences changed.” A tiny wave reached farther than the others and touched the side of Thomas’s foot. He watched the water soak into the sand around it. “I looked at Hell’s Peak yesterday,” he said. “Not because I intended to move it. I looked and understood that I might be able to.” Isha’s breath changed. Thomas did not turn toward her. “I could not do it safely,” he continued. “I do not know the load, the seal, the tunnels, the people or what the mountain is holding. But the idea no longer felt impossible because of power. Only because of consequence.” “And you think consequence is a weaker restraint.” “It can be argued with.” “So can exhaustion. So can mana.” “Not forever.” Isha let the silence hold. When she spoke, her voice had lost the mentor’s measured calm. “I am afraid of losing you.” Thomas looked at her. She did not conceal the fear behind practical language. “Not only to death,” she said. “I have already lost you that way once. I am afraid the final phase will ask for something you can give and that you will decide the asking makes it yours to spend.” Thomas thought of Pocket Island. The island breeze moved through the low trees behind them. The small place had become part refuge, part secret, part imagined future. Thomas had sometimes pictured a hut on the central rise, though the island was scarcely large enough to contain one without changing its character. He had pictured Isha walking the beach without patrols, crowns, witnesses or roads requiring answers. Long-range understanding sat inside him now with more weight than the island itself. The Demon Lord would not be defeated by killing another servant. The final prison might require a place cut away from every road. Thomas looked down at the sand. “I think this place matters.” Isha became very still. “You have thought that before.” “Not like this.” He could not tell her the exact ending because he did not know it. He had no system prophecy, no ancient record declaring what Pocket Island would become. Only a gathering shape: the Demon Lord beyond the seals, the need for a prison without subjects or roads, the private island that answered Thomas alone. “I do not know what lies beyond the Greater Demon,” he said. “I do not know whether the seal can be repaired. I do not know whether killing the thing holding the stolen authority makes the containment fail. But the closer we get, the more this place feels less like something I was given for us and more like something that may be needed.” Isha’s face had gone pale. Thomas reached for her hand. She did not give it immediately. “What does needed mean?” she asked. “I do not know.” “That is not enough.” “I know.” “Does it mean leaving it behind?” “Perhaps.” “Destroying it?” “Perhaps.” “Putting something here?” Thomas could not answer. Isha stood. The movement was abrupt enough to scatter sand from her clothes. Thomas rose more slowly. She walked several paces toward the water before turning back. “You brought me here to tell me our private place may become another tool.” “No.” “That is what you said.” “I brought you here because I did not want to think it alone.” The anger in her face broke around hurt. Thomas continued before fear could make him retreat into apology. “I want it to remain ours. I want a hut that is too large for the island. I want you to complain that every tree has become inconveniently close to the washing line. I want Kelda to say the rock edge is badly shaped and spend a year refusing to admit she likes it here.” Isha covered her mouth briefly. “I want those things,” Thomas said. “I also know the final phase is coming, and I cannot promise this place is separate from it.” She lowered her hand. “Can you promise you will not decide alone?” “Yes.” The answer came immediately. Isha’s gaze hardened. Thomas understood. He spoke again. “I promise I will not decide alone. Not because you asked me now and I want the argument to stop. Because any use of this place touches you and Kelda. Because it is the only place that has ever been entirely private to Green Road. Because I have no right to spend it as though the spell name makes it mine alone.” Isha came back to him. She stopped close enough that he could see the wetness in her eyes. “And yourself?” she asked. Thomas hesitated. Her hand struck his chest—not hard, but with enough force to make the omission physical. “You listed everyone except yourself.” “I am included.” “You often say that as if inclusion were an administrative correction.” Thomas caught her wrist gently. Isha allowed it. “I do not know what lies beyond,” he said. “That is the part I cannot make smaller. It may be death. It may be losing the island. It may be waking somewhere worse. It may be winning and becoming something no one can allow to remain free.” “Or living.” “Yes.” “You speak of that as the least credible outcome.” Thomas looked at her hand beneath his. “I do not know how to imagine after.” Isha stepped into him. She wrapped both arms around his shoulders and held him with the full physical certainty she had never lost. Thomas returned the embrace, face against the side of her neck. For a while, neither spoke. The island sea moved behind them. “I cannot promise the end,” Isha said into his hair. “I can promise you will not reach it by turning yourself into a tool before anything asks.” Thomas closed his eyes. “I wanted to be your strange little human boy again.” The sentence came out muffled and younger than he intended. Isha’s arms tightened. “You still are.” “I am Rank S.” “That is not a species.” “I can heal a yard full of people.” “You still leave wet towels where they grow cold.” “I can move buildings.” “You cannot fold a blanket evenly when tired.” “Kelda cannot either.” “Kelda does not pretend she can.” Thomas laughed once against her shoulder. The sound carried grief inside it without denying the humour. Isha leaned back enough to look at him. “You are my strange little human boy,” she said. “You are also my partner, an impossible mage, Green Road’s healer, and a man who has become more dangerous than some kingdoms. None of those names is allowed to eat the others.” Thomas nodded. She kissed his forehead. “Now,” she said, “you may train.” --- Isha made the training deliberately boring at first. Thomas formed five Holy Lances above the rock edge, each pointed away from the island toward a broad Holy Shield suspended over the sea. The shield was several layers thick and angled so that any failed shot would continue into empty water rather than strike the trees or beach. The lances waited. Isha walked along the rock lip, marking six points across the shield with small circles of light Thomas placed where she directed. “You have five,” she said. “Yes.” “There are six marks.” “I noticed.” “Good. Your awareness remains functional.” Thomas ignored the provocation. Holy Lance Level Six had given him five concurrent lances during the Magnog fight. Since then, he had repeated the pattern often enough that it no longer required crisis. Five formed as one practical answer, separate in aim but coherent in intent. The sixth mark sat slightly above the others. Thomas tried to add another lance without weakening the first five. Nothing appeared. He increased mana. Isha shook her head. “It is not a mana problem.” “I know.” “You answered by adding mana.” “I was confirming.” “You were being a powerful bad apprentice.” Thomas released the five lances into the shield. They struck in a converging sequence. Pale light crossed the short distance, pressed deep curves into the layered barrier and vanished without damaging the sea beyond. Isha returned to his side. “What made five possible?” “Need.” “No.” “The Magnog.” “That was circumstance.” Thomas considered. “I stopped thinking of them as separate casts.” “Then why are you trying to create a sixth separately?” He looked at the six target marks. The first five had become a known shape. Adding another to the edge treated the pattern as complete before the spell had decided so. Thomas released the assumption. He formed Holy Lance again, not as five objects but as a field of possible lines between himself and the shield. Six points answered. The lances appeared together. The system registered the change with little more than a quiet certainty: **Holy Lance reached Level 7.** Thomas felt the new structure settle. Six was not a harder version of five. It was a broader pattern, allowing the spell to hold one more line of independent judgement without fragmenting. Isha examined them. “Move the third left.” Thomas moved it. “Sixth lower.” He adjusted. “Now the first and fourth cross.” “They will strike the same point.” “After crossing.” Thomas altered the paths. Isha’s directions became faster. Thomas followed them until all six lines could be rearranged without the formation losing coherence. “Fire.” The volley struck. Two lances opened the shield’s outer layer. Two followed through the same weakening. The crossed pair entered from opposing angles a fraction later and met inside the barrier. The shield held. Thomas strengthened it. “Again,” Isha said. He formed the next six immediately. For the first several volleys, each required a distinct breath. Formation, arrangement, release. The rhythm resembled archery practised too quickly: not because the spell needed the breath, but because Thomas did. Isha counted without urgency. “One.” The volley struck. “Two.” Another formed and released. By the tenth sequence, Thomas no longer waited for the previous lances to vanish before shaping the next. A new formation gathered while the old one crossed the distance. The shield over the sea glowed continuously from repeated impacts. “One volley every two seconds,” Isha said. “Cleanly.” Thomas increased the pace. Six lances formed. Release. Six more. The pattern reached one volley each second. Pale lines crossed the air with distinct gaps between them, each group carrying enough Holy force to destroy a minor demon if the target remained clear. Mana expenditure was negligible at Rank S. Attention was not. Thomas had to preserve aim, spacing and the shield’s integrity while preventing the speed itself from becoming intent. Isha altered the target marks between volleys. He followed. “Faster,” she said. Thomas began forming two patterns at once. The first six released. The second followed half a second later. Another pair gathered. Twelve lances crossed each second in two clean waves. The shield bent farther under the repeated force. Thomas reinforced it from behind, allowing the front layer to yield rather than making the whole barrier rigid. For several seconds, he held the rhythm. Then the casting changed. The interval between volleys had become the least useful part of the spell. Each formation rebuilt the same line of Holy intent, released it, then rebuilt it again. Thomas could feel wasted structure in the repeated beginnings. He stopped forming separate lances. Holy force remained connected between himself and the shield. A narrow line of white light appeared. It did not travel. It existed continuously from Thomas’s hand to the centre of the barrier. The shield depressed beneath it. Thomas widened the line until it became as thick as his wrist. The pressure increased smoothly rather than by impacts. He narrowed it again, shifted the aim and drew a bright cut across the shield’s outer surface without breaking the deeper layers. A new spell settled into his awareness: **Holy Beam, Level 1.** Thomas stared at it. The beam remained steady. “It is a laser,” he said. Isha watched the white line. “That word means nothing to me.” “In my old world, there were devices that made very narrow light. Some could cut.” “This is Holy magic.” “Yes.” “So it is not the same.” “No.” “Then why did you say it?” “Because it looks like one.” Isha considered the beam. “It looks like a reason not to stand where you point.” “That is also accurate.” At its narrowest, the spell concentrated roughly the destructive effect of two or three lances into every second of contact. It was less violent than the two-volley rhythm at its peak, but continuous. A ward could not recover in the space between impacts because there was no space. Thomas could widen it for broader pressure or narrow it enough to enter an existing fracture. Against a minor demon, it would be less a battle than a decision. That knowledge quieted his satisfaction. Isha noticed. “Release it.” Thomas ended the spell. The sudden absence left a pale afterimage across his sight. She inspected the shield target. Its outer layer remained deeply scored where the beam had passed, though the inner boundaries held. “Useful,” she said. “Terrifying.” “Yes.” Thomas looked at her. Isha touched the centre of his palm, where no heat or mark remained. “Both may be true.” --- Levitate began badly. Thomas could hold himself several inches above the grass, but remaining level while Isha walked around him proved more difficult than rising. His body drifted toward her whenever his attention followed her movement. “You are leaning,” she said. “I am not touching anything.” “You are leaning without ground. It is more obvious.” Thomas corrected his balance. Levitate had first appeared as a gap between Slow Fall and Water Walk: support where no surface existed. At Level One it remained brief, unstable and easier on Thomas than anyone else. Rank S gave the spell more mana than it could use, but did not teach it how to become stable. Isha pressed two fingers against his shoulder. Thomas drifted half a pace sideways. “Poor,” she said. “You pushed me.” “A hostile breeze will apologise before doing so.” He tried again. This time he treated Levitate less as an upward force and more as a temporary surface shaped around his centre of weight. Slow Fall contributed the understanding of carried motion. Water Walk contributed trust in support that was not solid. Holy Shield contributed the idea of a boundary able to hold without gripping. Thomas remained in place when Isha pushed. She increased the pressure. He moved slightly, then returned to the original position without conscious correction. The system acknowledged the improvement quietly: **Levitate reached Level 2.** The spell no longer felt like a hand beneath him. It became a stable relation between body and surrounding space. Thomas could hold it for minutes without strain, perhaps much longer, and lateral drift diminished unless intentionally permitted. Isha walked away from him. “Me.” Thomas lowered himself. “Consent?” “You have it for Levitate practice until I withdraw it.” The precision of the answer mattered. He cast the spell on her. Isha rose half a foot above the grass. Her body adjusted instantly. She bent one knee, shifted her hips and turned in place as though the air were an uncertain branch. Levitate held her centre, but her own balance determined what she did around it. Thomas raised her another foot. “You did not warn me.” “You consented.” “To practice, not surprise.” He lowered her. Isha landed lightly. Thomas opened his mouth to apologise. She swept his leading foot and caught his wrist. The world turned. Thomas landed on his back in the grass without pain because Slow Fall answered automatically. Before he could sit up, Isha straddled his hips, caught both wrists and pressed them above his head with one hand. She was smiling. “Bad apprentice.” “You attacked the caster.” “You changed altitude without warning.” “You were one foot above grass.” “I am older and fragile.” Thomas looked pointedly at the hand holding both his wrists. Isha leaned closer. “Do not argue with your mentor.” He could have moved her. Not physically. Isha was stronger than he was and better placed. But a small shield between them would have broken the hold. Levitate could have lifted him from beneath her. Form could have raised the ground. He did none of those things. The choice entered the intimacy rather than diminishing it. Isha’s smile softened. She knew. Thomas tested her grip with ordinary strength. It held. “Are you going to release me?” he asked. “Eventually.” “Is there a lesson?” “Yes.” “What is it?” She lowered her face until her hair fell around them. “Power does not excuse poor manners.” Then she kissed him. Thomas stopped testing the hold. When she released his wrists, he placed his hands at her waist and kept her above him for a while longer. Nothing in the moment required proof, permission repeated every breath, or an explanation of why yielding felt safe. Their years together had built a language wide enough to contain both force and release. Isha eventually sat back. “Again,” she said. Levitate Level Two supported both of them separately. Thomas held Isha a pace to his left while he rose on the right. Their relative spacing remained stable as she shifted, turned and extended one leg. He added two packed travel bags from beside the shelter, then several loose stones. The spell held all of them. Not as one object. As a small formation of consenting people and intended loads. Isha moved farther away. Thomas allowed the distance to widen while maintaining their height. She walked through the air with no ground beneath her feet, the motion useless but instructive. “Can it rise?” she asked. “Not well.” “Try.” Thomas lifted himself. The spell resisted at first, preferring the stable height it had established. He changed the intention from support to controlled ascent. They rose together. One foot. Two. A full pace above the grass. Isha looked down. “Higher.” Thomas brought them to the height of the shelter roof. The island changed from above. Its smallness became undeniable: pale beach on one side, dark rock on the other, trees and scrub gathered around the central rise with scarcely enough distance to pretend at wilderness. Thomas held them there. The spell became quieter. Vertical movement no longer felt like forcing a stable support upward. It became part of the same relation to space. Thomas could choose height, maintain it and change it gradually without losing balance or formation. **Levitate reached Level 3.** At Level Three, the spell could raise several people, hold them steadily for much longer periods and move them slowly through open air. It was not true flight. Speed remained little better than a careful walk, and sudden changes demanded attention. Yet ground had become optional for practical movement. Thomas carried them toward the beach. Isha adjusted her balance as the island passed below. She could not steer herself independently, but Thomas allowed her intended direction to influence the formation. They turned together and followed the crescent shore several paces above the water. “You could cross the island without touching it,” she said. “Yes.” “You could carry all four of us.” “I think so.” “With packs?” “Yes.” “While shielding?” Thomas formed a complete sphere around them. Pale light enclosed both bodies, leaving several feet of clear space in every direction. The sphere moved with Levitate, smooth and stable. Isha looked down through the transparent floor. “No ground signals.” “None.” “No tracks.” “No.” “Arrows, ash, gas and falling stone?” “The shield handles the first three. Falling stone depends on scale.” “Demons striking from below?” Thomas strengthened the lower boundary. “Difficult.” Isha touched the pale inner surface. “And air?” Thomas looked at her. The sphere was complete. Holy Shield could keep water, smoke and hostile magic outside. A complete boundary also prevented ordinary exchange. With two people inside, breathable air would not fail quickly, but it would fail eventually. Thomas opened the sphere. Wind entered. They descended to the beach. “That is tomorrow’s problem,” Isha said. “Today’s instruction is food.” --- Their second evening on Pocket Island was quieter than the first. Create Food produced a simple meal despite Thomas’s emotional state: bread, white fish, greens, roasted roots and a small honey cake divided evenly without Isha needing to intervene. They ate near the rock edge while the sun lowered over the pocket sea. Thomas told her about the first time he had understood that he could not return to his former world. Not the fact of death. He had always known that. The deeper realisation came years later, when Tessa was small and had asked him about a word he had used from the old life. Thomas had tried to explain an object that did not exist here and discovered that the memory of it had already become less precise than the farm table beneath his hands. “I thought having two lives meant keeping both,” he said. “It did not. It meant losing one slowly while the other became real.” Isha listened with her knees drawn up beneath the blanket they shared. “Do you remember faces?” “Some. Not reliably.” “Names?” “More than faces.” “Did you love anyone?” Thomas watched the last light move across the water. “Yes. Family. Friends. Not as I love you.” Isha accepted the distinction without demanding the old world become smaller for her. “Do you think the final phase feels like dying because you have already crossed once?” “Perhaps.” “Or because you are preparing yourself to spend everything before anyone asks?” Thomas looked at her. She did not retreat from the accusation. “I do not know,” he said. “That is honest.” He leaned against her shoulder. Isha rested her cheek on his hair. “When you call me your strange little human boy,” Thomas said, “you do not mean little.” “Sometimes you are literally smaller.” “You know what I mean.” “Yes.” Her hand found his beneath the blanket. “I mean strange because no category keeps you. Human because that is what you are, not what systems fail to make you. Boy because part of you remains young enough to need care and old enough to be embarrassed by it.” “And yours?” Isha was quiet long enough that Thomas heard the question return to her in several forms. “Mine because you choose to be,” she said. “Not because I can keep you.” He closed his fingers around hers. The island darkened. Minor Light Orbs rose among the trees, dim enough not to erase the stars. Thomas warmed the shelter and cleaned the sand from their feet only after Isha gave permission with exaggerated solemnity. They slept close together. Thomas did not dream of the workers. He dreamed of a mountain opening like a door and woke with Isha’s arm across his chest, holding him to a world where no door had yet moved. --- Holy Breath appeared on the second morning. They began with a sealed shield at ground level. Thomas formed a sphere around both of them near the beach, wide enough to sit comfortably with their backs against opposite sides if necessary. He made the boundary fully transparent, then closed every controlled gap until the air inside no longer moved with the sea breeze. Isha sat cross-legged on the flattened lower curve. “You have made a room with no door.” “I can open one immediately.” “That was not approval.” Thomas placed a Minor Light Orb above them and started a rough count. For the first several minutes, nothing changed except warmth. Their breath added moisture. The inside of the sphere began to mist faintly where cooler air touched the boundary. Thomas used Chill Area lightly to regulate temperature. They continued speaking so that breathing remained ordinary. “What exactly are you waiting for?” Isha asked. “The air becoming unsafe.” “How will you know before it is?” “Status. Possibly Remove Poison.” “Used breath is not poison.” “Not ordinarily.” Thomas could remember the old-world terms more easily than he could translate them. Oxygen. Carbon dioxide. Proportions rather than simple good air and bad air. This world’s healing magic understood bodies without requiring those names, but intent still benefited from knowledge. After half an hour, Status showed the beginning of strain rather than immediate danger. Their breathing had deepened slightly. The air felt close. Thomas cast Purify. The spell distinguished smoke, toxins and demonic contamination that were not present. It did not treat ordinary exhalation as imposed corruption. Remove Poison did nothing. Cleanse removed moisture from the boundary and the salt drying on their clothes, but did not restore the air. Create Water could not answer. Warm and Chill changed comfort, not breath. Thomas opened a narrow gap. Fresh sea air entered. Isha inhaled deeply. “That is the safest spell so far.” “The gap?” “Yes.” Thomas closed it again after the air exchanged. He thought of Holy Shield’s purpose. Protection had become complete enough to exclude everything. That completeness created its own danger. A boundary that kept out poison, ash, water and demonic gas could also keep out the ordinary world a body required. The answer was not to make the shield less complete. It was to carry what living people needed inside the boundary. Thomas placed one hand against the pale surface. He cast Purify again, not to remove impurity, but to recognise breathable balance. Cleanse joined it, understanding air fouled through ordinary use. Remove Poison contributed the distinction between atmosphere and toxin. Create Water offered nothing directly, but its knowledge of forming necessary substance from magic lay close to the edge of the working. Holy intent entered last. Not attack. Not refusal. Sustenance inside a protected boundary. The air changed. It became fresh without wind. The slight heaviness disappeared. Moisture remained at a comfortable level instead of gathering against the sphere. Thomas could feel the spell removing excess carbon dioxide and anything harmful suspended in the air while maintaining what breathing required. Beyond that, the working carried a stranger capacity: if the immediate space lacked air entirely, it could create a limited breathable atmosphere around selected living targets. The system named the new answer: **Holy Breath, Level 1.** Isha inhaled slowly. “What did you do?” “Made the shield understand that keeping us alive includes air.” “That is not a mechanism.” “It is the honest answer.” “What is the dishonest one?” Thomas thought of explaining carbon dioxide. “A long description from my old world involving invisible parts of air.” Isha looked around the sphere. “Does it work?” “Yes.” “For how long?” Thomas examined the threads. Holy Breath linked naturally to the complete shield. It required mana, but very little at Rank S. It would maintain breathable air while the boundary remained coherent and Thomas’s intent continued to include the occupants as people rather than protected objects. “Hours without difficulty,” he said. “Longer if I refresh it. Perhaps indefinitely in practical terms, provided I remain capable of maintaining the spells.” “Indefinitely is a dangerous word.” “Yes.” “What happens if you sleep?” “The shield can persist. Holy Breath may persist with it now that they are joined, but I would not trust that without testing.” “What happens if you are knocked unconscious?” “I do not know.” “Then not indefinitely.” “No.” Isha rested her palm against the inner wall. “Make it opaque.” Thomas darkened the sphere. Light from outside vanished. The Minor Light Orb became their only illumination. The boundary changed from pale transparency to a soft white surface without shadow or view. Isha looked around. “No one can see in.” “No.” “We cannot see out.” “I can leave clear sections.” He opened four narrow transparent panels around the sphere. “Better.” “Form can make an interior shelf if we bring material.” “No.” Thomas looked at her. “You may not start furnishing the prison.” “It is not a prison.” Isha pointed at the sealed white walls. “What is the difference from inside?” “Consent. Purpose. The ability to open it.” “Good. Keep all three.” Thomas levitated the sphere. They rose above the beach together. Holy Breath held the air. The sphere remained stable. Thomas flattened the lower inner curve enough to give them something like a floor—not matter, only a boundary shaped to carry weight comfortably. He created water into two cups, then food on a cloth between them. Warm Area held the temperature steady. Chill Area removed excess heat from the enclosed space. Cleanse cleared crumbs and dried salt without touching either person. They hovered several paces above Pocket Island inside a sealed, partly opaque sphere containing air, light, food, water and controlled warmth. Thomas extended the thought to Green Road. Kelda’s weight and armour. Erenai’s bow and uncertainty. Packs. Injuries. Ash storm. Poisoned atmosphere. Flood. Ground relays. A siege without safe stone. The package could carry them above all of it. A moving refuge. A fortress with no road beneath it. “We could remain like this for days,” he said. “With all four of us. Longer, perhaps. Create Food and Water solve supplies. Cleanse handles hygiene. Warm and Chill handle temperature. Holy Breath handles air. The shield can be made opaque. Levitate keeps us away from the ground.” Isha looked through one clear panel at the island below. “And what would Kelda do?” Thomas paused. “Inside?” “Yes.” “Advise on load and structure.” “There is no structure she can touch.” “She could watch the shield.” “With what craft?” Thomas understood. “What would Erenai witness?” Isha continued. “White walls? Your decisions? Would I scout through a clear slit you chose while you carried my body and determined where the refuge moved?” “I could let you direct movement.” “But I could not leave without you opening it.” Thomas lowered his gaze. The sphere remained perfectly safe. That was the problem. Isha moved closer and sat opposite him on the flattened boundary. “This may save us,” she said. “It may save many people. It is also your power becoming a complete environment around everyone you love.” “I would ask.” “Yes.” “I would open it whenever anyone wanted.” “Yes.” She reached across and took his hand. “And if opening it meant death?” Thomas did not answer quickly. Isha’s fingers tightened. “That is where care becomes a cage,” she said. “Not when you intend harm. When the safest answer gives everyone else less and less room to choose.” Thomas looked through the narrow viewing panel. From this height, Pocket Island seemed small enough to enclose in one larger shield. He could protect all of it. He would also prevent the waves from reaching the beach. “I understand.” “Do you?” “Enough to be frightened.” “That is a beginning.” Thomas opened the sphere. Sea air entered around them though Holy Breath had kept the air inside perfectly fresh. Sunlight replaced the Light Orb. The boundary remained as a low platform beneath their feet while Levitate lowered them to the beach. When the ground came close, Thomas hesitated. Isha noticed. “What?” “I could keep us above it.” “Yes.” “The island’s ground cannot signal anything.” “No.” “There is no reason not to touch it.” Isha stepped from the shield platform onto the sand. “There is a reason.” Thomas looked at her. “Because we choose to.” He lowered himself. His bare feet met warm sand. The spell released. --- They spent the rest of the second day testing limits without seeking more advancement. Holy Beam could remain narrow for nearly a minute before fine aim began to blur. Widening it reduced penetration but allowed Thomas to sweep a broader target. Six Holy Lances could be divided among six distinct points, arranged as two groups of three or released in a converging train. Isha made him stop whenever speed began to replace judgement. Levitate could hold both of them for close to an hour without meaningful mana cost. Slow lateral movement remained stable. Sudden changes were possible but uncomfortable, and Thomas could not yet call the result true flight. The spell supported intended packs and equipment, though loose objects required deliberate inclusion. Holy Breath worked within separate shields as well as a shared one. Thomas could maintain breathable air for each of them independently while Levitate held them at different heights. The combination widened Green Road’s options enormously. It did not make them invulnerable. Attention could still be divided. Hostile magic might disrupt the shields. Thomas could be stunned, deceived or forced to choose among competing needs. Isha could not shoot freely from a closed sphere without a controlled opening. Kelda could not hold a physical line if no one allowed her contact with the enemy or ground. Erenai could witness nothing through an opaque wall. Every perfect answer remained perfect only by narrowing the question. Near sunset, Isha ordered Thomas to stop. He complied on the first instruction. “That was suspiciously easy,” she said. “I am a good apprentice.” “No.” Thomas looked offended. “You developed three spell advances and a new Holy working after being told to rest.” “You authorised training.” “I authorised controlled practice. You attempted to invent a flying fortress.” “It happened gradually.” “So do many disasters.” Thomas sat beside the central rise. Isha remained standing. “What now?” he asked. “You have become proud.” “I do not think so.” “You corrected me.” “Only because you were wrong.” She stepped closer. Thomas recognised the smile too late. He rose. Isha caught his shirt, turned with his movement and brought him down into the grass. Slow Fall softened the landing before he consciously cast it. She pinned one wrist beside his head and held his shoulder with the other hand, her knee controlling his hip. “Bad apprentice,” she said. Thomas could not stop smiling. “I followed every instruction.” “You thought about moving a mountain.” “That was yesterday.” “You built an airborne sealed refuge.” “You helped.” “You used the word indefinitely.” “I corrected it.” Isha leaned closer. “And you still believe rules become optional when your explanation is long enough.” “That seems unfair.” “It is accurate.” Thomas tested the position. Isha’s restored body was stronger than before death, though the difference had become ordinary through years of use. She was an elf in full physical health, trained, agile and entirely certain of where her weight belonged. Without magic, Thomas could not shift her. With magic, the hold meant nothing. Because he chose not to use it, the hold meant trust. Isha’s expression changed as the same understanding passed between them. She released his wrist and placed her palm against his cheek. “You are far beyond me now,” she said. Thomas began to object. “Do not insult me with comfort.” He stopped. “In raw power,” she continued, “you are beyond Kelda and me together. Your perception can cover a field before I have crossed it. You can shield every line, heal every wound, and kill demons before either of us reaches them. There will be battles where my experience matters only because you choose to let it shape what you do.” Thomas looked up at her through the pale fall of her hair. “That does not make you less.” “I know.” The certainty in her answer was stronger than any reassurance he could have offered. “It changes me,” Isha said. “I cannot remain your protector by pretending I stand between you and every danger. Sometimes I will stand beside you. Sometimes behind your shield. Sometimes I will tell you where to point the thing only you can wield.” She stroked his cheek once. “And sometimes I will put you on the ground because you have forgotten you possess a body.” Thomas turned his face into her palm. “I do not want you behind me.” “Then do not make the shield a wall between us.” “I do not want to outgrow being your apprentice.” “You already did.” The words hurt. Isha did not soften them. “You became my partner long ago. Apprentice was one shape between us, and it remains available because we choose it. You cannot live inside it permanently without making me smaller too.” Thomas closed his eyes. “I know.” “Today?” “Yes.” “Good.” Isha lowered herself beside him instead of above him. Thomas turned toward her. They lay in the grass near the central rise while dusk entered the small island. “I did not want to become smaller forever,” he said. “I wanted one day when becoming larger was not required.” Isha drew him against her. “That I understand.” He rested his head beneath her chin. The first stars appeared over the pocket sea. “What lies beyond?” Thomas asked. Isha knew he did not mean the island’s horizon. “I do not know.” “Do you think we survive?” “Yes.” Thomas shifted enough to look at her. “You cannot know that.” “No.” “Then why say it?” “Because I intend to behave as though our future is real until reality proves otherwise.” He considered the answer. “That sounds stubborn.” “I am older than you. We call it wisdom.” Thomas smiled. Isha kissed his temple. “Sleep, my strange little human boy.” The name no longer made him smaller. It gave the larger shapes somewhere to return. --- They left Pocket Island the following morning. Thomas cleaned the shelter only after Isha allowed it. They folded the canvas together, with Isha correcting his corners despite having folded his coat badly the day before. The training shields were released. The target marks vanished from the air. Thomas restored the few pieces of beach stone he had shaped and checked that no Holy residue remained concentrated enough to disturb the island’s quiet growth. Nothing they had done required the place to become a permanent training ground. The beach remained a beach. Before opening the doorway, Thomas set the return intention toward the cistern side chamber and the outside moment they had left. He could feel the time relation imperfectly: less than two hours had likely passed, but not so little that Kelda would consider the result precise. Isha put on her pack. Thomas reached for his. She took it first. He looked at her. “The day is over,” she said. “But I am carrying this through the doorway.” “Why?” “Because I choose to.” Thomas accepted that. The opening appeared. Dark cistern stone waited beyond the bright island shore. Kelda stood on the other side with her hammer in hand. She lowered it when she saw them. “You missed one hour and most of a second,” she said. “Erenai counted tones. The mountain remains quiet.” Thomas stepped through. His boots did not touch the floor. Levitate held him a finger’s breadth above the stone, so naturally that he had not noticed it remained active. Kelda looked down. Isha followed his gaze. Thomas lowered himself. The old floor took his weight. “What changed?” Kelda asked. Thomas considered Holy Lance, Holy Beam, Levitate, Holy Breath and the sealed refuge that could carry Green Road without touching any demon road. “A few ways of not standing where the enemy expects,” he said. Kelda looked at Isha. “More?” “Several.” Erenai entered the side chamber behind her. The female elf looked tired but uninjured, her restored ear bare beneath tied-back hair. “The mountain gave no new order,” she said. “The workers slept. Merra wants to move the strongest people before midday.” Thomas nodded. He did not open Status across the entire cistern. He asked, “Who needs me first?” Erenai named two people. Thomas went to them on foot.