Page 47 of Dark Night of the Soul

Cashiel stepped closer. The light around him dimmed, focusing, narrowing.

“They are trying to erase the space where you choose,” he said. “To shorten it until instinct replaces will.”

“I know,” I whispered. “I know.”

“But you can anchor it,” he said. “Choose something to protect. Something they cannot touch. Hide it in you. Bury it so deep they’ll never find it.”

My vision blurred. “How?”

He didn’t answer right away. That’s how I knew it would leave its mark on me.

“Choose now,” he said softly. “Choose something to anchor you. To hold on to.”

Images flashed—too fast, too sharp.

My mother’s eyes.

Kincade’s hands. Steady. Warm. Unmoving. The way he never forced—only held.

The pause. The breath before action.

The no that mattered.

“I choose,” I said, voice breaking, “his hands.”

The pressure spiked then twisted.

I pulled.

Not with power. With memory. With will. I folded that fragile, precious image, wrapped it around a single truth and locked it deep inside myself.

I decide.

Cashiel exhaled, relief and sorrow braided together. “That’s all I can give you.”

The world rushed back in—noise, motion, sensation slamming into me at once. The machines surged. The instinct roared.

But something held.

Not untouched.

Not whole.

Held.

As the light faded, Cashiel’s voice brushed against my mind one last time.

“They will think they succeeded,” he said. “And in some ways… they have.”

The room snapped back into focus.

Hands restrained me. Voices barked commands.

And beneath it all, the fire burned hot and ready.

But the pause—

The pause was still mine.