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So Dorian felt for that tangle in his magic,
the place where raw power eddied and
emerged as whatever he wished.
Let go—the shifting magic’s command.
Let go of everything. Let go of that wall he’d
built around himself the moment the Valg
prince had invaded him, and look within. At
himself. Perhaps what the sword had asked
him to do in summoning Kaltain instead.
Who do you wish to be?
“Someone worthy of my friends,” he said
into the quiet night. “A king worthy of his
kingdom.” For a heartbeat, snow-white hair
and golden eyes flashed into his mind.
“Happy,” he whispered, and wrapped a hand
around Damaris’s hilt. Let go of that lingering
scrap of terror.
The ancient sword warmed in his hand, a
friendly and swift heat.
It flowed up through his fingers, his wrist.