Adrian's POV
Recovery is a lie people tell themselves to feel hope in a dangerous situation. I have learned early that there is no clean line between being broken and whole, only a series of fragile ceasefires between the mind and the damage it carries.
The doctors call it stabilization, the psychic council names it containment of power. Elena calls it breathing room.
I call it standing on cracked glass, waiting to see which fracture decides to give.
The first time I try to reach too far, to test the edges of my gift, it nearly floors me. Not pain exactly, but resistance. Like pushing against a locked door with muscles that still remember how to kick it in.
I double over, hands braced against the cold marble railing of the east balcony, vision narrowing.
"Elena was right," Thorne says calmly behind me. "You're not ready."
I don't turn. "I don't have the luxury of being ready."
"You also don't have the luxury of being dead."
