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Chapter 14

  • Daerton’s fingers were long and elegant and never still. He picked at the threads of his robes, twisted locks of his hair, or fidgeted with the metal collar around his neck constantly. He had the pale skin of someone who had not seen the sun in years, almost transparent, the blue veins vivid against it and his eyes were night dark, intelligent, and wary. A contrast of light and dark, I thought, a man conflicted.
  • “This isn’t an army,” he had declared as we landed in the camp. “It’s half a tavern fight, at most.”
  • He paced the interior of my tent, touching, moving, and generally prying into every object left in the open. He picked up my smooth rock, and rolled it in his hand, his eyes coming to me. He knew that it was my rock, as if I had imprinted myself upon it.
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