The Guardian gasps awake, like the breath was ripped out instead of restored. The Ghost floats closer, not masking his agitation. "You did it on purpose. Died. On purpose. I saw." The Guardian flips a hand impatiently. "So what. Death is waiting for us every minute of every day. If I grab it by the throat, that's no different from me tripping over it in the dark before you bring me back." "You know that the difference is intent. Guardians do not seek death. They embrace it as part of their sacrifice. They le—" Singsong, now. "'They learn from it and they grow stronger.' Come on. I've learned more about being a 'Guardian' out here than from any of your Speaker's sermons under the Traveler. Whether or not a Knight slices my throat before I die." The Ghost looks hurt. "Ikora, you don't—" "Later. We're going back to Trostland. I'm not going to grow any stronger sitting here pulling pine needles out of my face." She walks away, eyes brighter than her Ghost's in the dark. He floats in place, silent, and then follows.