“Perfect! She’s concussed and hysterical!” Altair’s hands flailed dramatically as my laughter spiraled through the chamber.

Was this it? The end? Had I ever truly been alive at all? My mind whirled as my breakdown unfolded—a cacophony of accusations flying between the men, fingers pointed, voices raised.

Then, stillness.

I sucked in a breath and rose without taking Lucian’s offered hand. No. Not like this.

“Everyone—” My voice scraped raw from laughter. They ignored me—all but Lucian, whose violet eyes flicked to Eisvan in silent command.

A glacial wave erupted as Eisvan lifted his palm. Frost crackled across the floorboards.

“Now I’m pissed and freezing—” Garric began.

“Silence.” Eisvan's voice could’ve shattered stone.

The room plunged into quiet.

“Continue,” Lucian murmured—a voice made for midnight confessions, velvet-wrapped and dangerous.

I straightened my spine under their collective gaze. “I’m unharmed.” The lie settled like ash on my tongue. “But…” I let hesitation creep into my tone. Their postures shifted—shoulders tensed, brows furrowed. Good.

“What is it?” Dryven demanded.

“After my fall… certain memories seem…” I touched my temple delicately. “Gone.”

Dominic’s teacup shattered on the floor. “What do you mean gone?” His composure cracked like thin ice.

Garric lunged forward, towering over Dominic. “You gave her tonics without checking for brain damage?!” The threat hung unsaid: I’ll rip you apart.

Why such ferocity? My pulse thundered. What bond had Spera shared with these men?

“Please.” I pressed palms together in mock supplication. “No fighting. Just… help me remember?”

Altair snorted. “Oh, she’s definitely broken. Since when does Spera say ‘please’?”

“This isn’t amusing.” Eisvan's frostbite glare could’ve frozen hell over.

“Fine, fine!” Altair raised his beaded hands in surrender, though mischief still danced in his falcon’s gaze.

The silence stretched taut as they exchanged glances—a silent argument conducted in raised eyebrows and clenched jaws. Finally, Lucian sighed and stepped forward, his scholar’s robes whispering against the floorboards.

“Very well.” His violet eyes glowed faintly in the dim light. “Since you’ve apparently forgotten us—” A pointed look at Dominic, who grimaced, “—allow me to reintroduce this band of misfits.”

He gestured to Garric, who stood with arms crossed, his usual restless energy subdued.

“The walking famine,” Lucian said dryly. “ Garric once ate an entire boar in one sitting and still asked for dessert. You used to sneak extra rolls into his pack before journeys.”

Garric's stern expression cracked. “You knew about that?”

“She thought she was being subtle,” Dryven interjected, flipping his damp hair over his shoulder. “Meanwhile, I’m the one who taught you to pick locks after Dominic banned you from the pantry.” He smirked. “You cried when you cracked your first chest. Said it felt like ‘betraying the wood.’”

My chest tightened. Spera had wept over a lockbox?

“Don’t look so shocked,” Altair said, perching on the bedpost with unnatural grace. “You were a strange child. Followed Eisvan around for weeks after he froze your fever with his hands.”

Eisvan's frost-pale lashes lowered. “You called me ‘Winter’s Ghost.’” A rare smile touched his lips. “Then tried to lick my scars to see if they tasted like snow.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. “I did not—”

“Oh, you did,” Dominic rumbled, finally stepping forward. His calloused hand—the one that had stitched wounds and braided my hair—hovered near my shoulder. “You were seven. Terrified of thunderstorms. Climbed into my bed during every storm and demanded ‘witch stories’ until dawn.”

The room blurred. Fragments of memory surfaced: Garric's laughter as I balanced bread rolls on his sleeping form, Dryven's patient hands guiding mine over lockpicks, Eisvan's cold fingers brushing my forehead—

“And me?” Altair leaned in, his braid swinging. “Remember when you—”

“Tied feathers to your arms and shoved you off the barn roof,” Dominic finished flatly. “To ‘help him fly properly.’”

Altair shuddered. “Broke three ribs.”

“You healed!” My voice came out too sharp, too Spera. The men stilled.

Lucian’s gaze sharpened. “So. Not all memories are lost.”

I swallowed. Caught.

Garric's hand engulfed mine. “Doesn’t matter.” His thumb brushed my knuckles—the same way he’d done when teaching me to hold a sword. “We’ll remind you. Every damn day if we have to.”

Dryven flicked my ear. “Starting with why you never touch Altair’s wings.”

“Or my spellbooks,” Dominic added.

“Or my food,” Garric growled.

Eisvan's icy fingers pressed to my temple. “But first, we determine if this is magic or malice.” His glacial eyes met mine. “No one harms our Sparrow.”

The word ours hung in the air, heavier than any oath.