What you carry away.

Watch, disappear, climb, be still. Four arts, one game, and a lifetime to learn them, because the staircase has no top and the mirror never lies, and the person across from you keeps changing, which means you must keep changing too. I told you at the start that this part of the book was a map and not a manual, and I have kept my word. The territory is walked slowly, and it is walked alone, and it does not end. That is not a warning. That is the gift.

But you are already not the player you were when you opened this. That player saw a coin. You see a war now, and a mirror, and a conversation between two minds with nowhere to hide. You know that every throw is a confession. You know that breaking even is a quiet way of losing, and that the bravest thing you can do is step off the safe ledge and risk being read for the chance to read. You will sit down to the very next game differently than you ever have, and the person across from you — throwing on habit, calling it luck, exactly as you did your whole life until now — will not know what changed.

That was the whole of it. Not a trick to beat them with. A pair of eyes to see with, and a game finally worthy of them.

Go and play it like it's real. It always was.

This is Beyond Range.