Crane was halfway across the courtyard when he heard the scream. His morning class started in four minutes, but his feet stopped moving before his mind caught up. Someone needed help. The choice made itself. He found her slumped against the stone border of the water basin, blood pooling beneath her leg. The wound ran deep, bone-deep, and her face had gone gray. She wasn't moving. Crane dropped to his knees and pressed both hands over the gash, feeling warmth soak through his fingers. He whispered the prayer he'd practiced a thousand times, the one that should call Allune's grace if he was ready, if he was worthy, if today was the day he'd waited for since he was eleven years old. Nothing happened. His hands stayed pressed to her leg. Her breathing got shallower. He prayed again, harder this time, searching his thoughts for some fault he'd missed in his morning routine. Had he been too proud walking to class? Too focused on the record he wanted to break? The girl made a sound like air leaving a punctured bag, and Crane felt something crack open inside his chest. Not duty. Not discipline. Just fear. He couldn't let her die. He wouldn't. Heat flooded his palms. White light spilled between his fingers, so bright he had to close his eyes. The wound sealed itself beneath his hands, skin knitting together like thread pulled tight. When the light faded, the girl gasped and sat up. Crane stared at his trembling hands, still slick with blood but empty of answers. A brass star pendant lay on the ground where she'd fallen, and he couldn't stop looking at it. He'd done everything right his whole life, and the miracle had come only when he'd stopped trying. He didn't know what that meant. He didn't know if it counted. But something had changed, and he couldn't pretend it hadn't.