Jasmine pressed both hands against the edge of the tear, feeling its hunger reach for her the instant her power made contact, the same tearing, desperate pull she remembered from the night the rite had first tried to unmake her children. The sensation nearly buckled her knees, a cold so absolute it felt like drowning in the river all over again, dragging old, half-forgotten fears back to the surface alongside the physical strain.

"I'm here," she gasped, more to the twins than to anyone standing beside her. "I remember the shape. Help me hold it." The words came out ragged, torn between the effort of maintaining contact with the tear...