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“Then do it without commentary.”

“Cruel.”

His face does not move. “Accurate.”

I draw one thread of ward-energy into my hand.

Once, this would have been dangerous enough to make Isolde start counting my breaths and Sable reach for the nearest blunt object. Now the energy slides into me cleanly, a bright wire of civic power meeting the deeper black-gold current beneath my ribs. The hunger wakes, recognizes the command, and gathers exactly where I tell it to gather.

No lunge.

No spill.

No wild search for the nearest pulse.

I hold the energy for three slow breaths, then release it into the next channel. The new wardline brightens along the floor, racing toward the west pillar before settling into a steady glow. The workers nearest us pause. They always pause. They pretend they are inspecting their tools, but everyone wants to see whether the hybrid who swallowed devourers can touch ward-energy without turning the floor into a sermon on poor choices.

The floor survives.

So does everyone else.

Again.

Rhazek’s eyes narrow slightly. “Acceptable.”

I straighten and shake warmth from my fingers. “One day, you’re going to say something reckless like well done, and I won’t know how to handle it.”

“That day is distant.”

“I’ll prepare emotionally.”

Sable appears at my left with two cups of coffee, one of which she hands me with unnecessary force. “He did grunt approvingly yesterday.”

Rhazek looks at her. “I cleared my throat.”

Sable takes a sip from her own cup. “In your language, that’s a parade.”

I smell the coffee and decide it is probably capable of dissolving nails. “Is this drinkable?”

“No. It’s functional. You live with horns now. Be brave.”

I drink.

I regret.

Sable watches my face and smiles like the wicked little gremlin she is. “Good, right?”

“It tastes like someone threatened a bean with litigation.”

“You’re welcome.”

Rhazek steps closer, his attention returning to the glow under my skin. “Your aura remains stable after transfer.”

Sable’s teasing fades around the edges. She studies me with that careful look she gets when she tries not to let fear become visible. “It does, doesn’t it?”

I lift one brow. “You can feel that?”

“I’ve been able to feel the mess you call an aura since the transformation.” She looks away toward the workers, jaw set in a way I am not allowed to mention unless I want coffee thrown at me. “It doesn’t feel like it’s chewing through the walls to get out.”