“I can’t do this,” I whispered, coming to a standstill before the crate—like a coffin—that housed my restored armor. Why should your burden be light? Prince Philippe’s voice—Gibson’s voice—floated back to me out of a half-remembered dream. I shut my eyes, leaned against the metal pod, gripped its hard, defined edge. We struggle, and by that struggle we are filled. “Seek hardship,” I murmured, remembering Brethren’s words. I had found hardship indeed.
