Five years after that first night on the roof, the world had learned to whisper their names.
Not in fear. Not quite. In something closer to awe, the kind that made people lower their voices without knowing why. The kind that made parents tell their children stories at bedtime—stories that grew taller with each telling, until the original truth was buried under layers of legend.
Finn had stopped correcting people. There was no point. If someone wanted to believe he'd split a mountain in half with his bare hands, let them. If someone wanted to believe he'd outrun a lightning strike, fine. The truth was stranger anyway.
He stood at the window of their quarters—larger now, a whole floor of the east tower that the Academy had grudgingly surrendered—and watched the sun rise over the capital.
"You're brooding," Mira said from behind him.
"I'm thinking."
"Same thing."
