His fears were his own, weren’t they? He’d spun them out from himself. He’d forged them from every hurt and fury. Fear was a reminder that even the insubstantial could kill. But insubstantial meant it had no shape. It couldn’t be conquered or tamed or avoided. Only moved through, with force and will. Vikram crouched, his fingers splayed on the ground, his breath forming icicles in the air. His fears bore down. Sharp. Hungry. He grinned. I made you. I own you. He repeated the words like a mantra, until he found the strength to stand … And run.
