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Lysander stayed silent as he followed her back to the cottage. Idonea tilted towards his warmth.

By the time they reached the cottage, her legs were untrustworthy, but she held herself straight. She crossed the room, took the framed photo of Dyota from her arms, and placed it on the mantel beside the other. Side by side, the contrast punched the air from her lungs.

How had things gone so wrong?

Lysander hovered a step behind her.

When he spoke, his voice was low. “What did he say to you?”

Idonea stared at the two pictures. “Enough,” she said. “And not enough. Never enough.”

Lysander didn’t press, but he waited.

She swallowed, jaw tight. “He didn’t protect her, Lysander.”

His silence was not unkind.

Idonea’s fingers dug into her palms. “And the witches who died three years ago?" He didn’t deny it. “If she did it … she must have been terrified. Or lost. Or—”

Her voice broke, and she hated that it did. “She needed me.”

A muscle tightened in Lysander’s cheek. “You were not her parent.”

“It doesn’t change that she suffered.” Idonea turned to him, anger and grief threading through her voice. “And now he decides the truth matters? Now he wants forgiveness? After letting them rip into my mind?”

Lysander’s eyes darkened. “What they did to you won’t happen again.”

She let her forehead rest against the mantel, steadying her breath. Lysander didn’t reach for her, didn’t touch without invitation. But he was beside her, silent and solid.

“He still serves them,” she said. “He still believes in the Order.”

“You are not theirs.” Lysander’s voice held an edge.

A held breath went out of her. She shifted away from the mantel, his expression softening immediately.

His hand lifted, hovering near her shoulder. “I’ve finished the sensor.”

She breathed out, letting the shift in subject steady her. “The daemon one?”

He nodded and let his fingers rest gently against her shoulder. “Come downstairs. I’ll show you.”

She let him guide her towards the basement steps. Her feet were unsteady, but she didn’t pull away from him.

Downstairs, the metallic scent of Lodamante filled the air. Lysander moved to the worktable, sliding the Lodamante sheets outward to reveal the device he’d assembled.

At its centre was a pale, opalescent crystal.

“With you,” he said, “we can calibrate it.”

Idonea’s throat tightened around rising doubt. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough yet.”

Lysander stepped closer, meeting her gaze. “You are.” His voice held no question, no hesitation. “Trust me.”

He adjusted a lens. “Come.”

Idonea stepped closer, pulse fluttering in her throat. She laid her palm over it.

“Now,” he said, “breathe. Think of what Kitsa has taught you.”