The memory shattered.
Arik came back to himself with a violent inhale.
The waiting room of the diplomatic palace blurred around him for half a second, ether lamps flickering softly against polished marble and dark glass windows, but the scent of blood still clung to the inside of his lungs.
His hands were shaking.
No.
Trembling.
Like Goliath's hands had trembled after the poison.
Tears slid silently down Arik's face before he even realized he was crying.
Across from him, the old woman sat quietly beneath the dim ether light, her pale blue eyes fixed on him with the exhausted calm of someone who had survived too long to be surprised by grief anymore.
Amara.
Not a fortune teller. Not merely an old woman in a market stall.
Amara Kaelen-Tor.
Goliath's daughter.
Arik laughed once under his breath.
The sound came out broken.
"That," he said softly, voice rough from memories that did not belong entirely to him, "was cruel."
Amara said nothing.
