Rachel blinked awake to a ceiling she didn't recognize for half a second—polished composite, not her dorm canopy—then remembered: Tycho quarters, post-chaos, post-everything. She stretched on instinct and immediately winced as a bright line of ache lit her lower back.
Right. "Primal methods."
She rolled carefully onto a hip. Arthur was a tangle of limbs and blanket on the far side, dead to the world. The other three were draped over him like smug cats. Rachel scowled—not really at him, more at the memory of Purelight sliding off Lysantra's residue like rain off oil. When sanctity fails, you improvise. It had worked. It had also… worked.
She cupped a hand over the tender spot and let a faint wash of Purelight bloom under her skin. Keep it dim, keep it quiet.
"Mhmm, me too," murmured a voice against her stomach.
Rachel jumped. "Cecil—"
"Shh," Cecilia whispered, hand already over Rachel's mouth, crimson eyes very, very awake. "Why are you yelling?"
