“Your throat,” Matthias continued, on the other side of the curtain. “These bruises. Oh, dear one.” The endearment landed with softness—paternal, possessive, the kind of words that made the person hearing it feel small and protected and grateful. “What happened out there?”
“Wild Berserkers.” Cass’s voice became even smaller than it did at the gates. “There was a roadblock…”
“I’m here now. Let’s get these borrowed things off you and see what needs attending to.”
There was more rustling fabric and Riot heard Cass’s breathing change slightly, the self-consciousness of being undressed, and then Matthias’s voice again, closer now, lower:“There we are. Arms up—careful with the shoulder. That’s it. Good boy.”
Good boy.
The words hit Riot like voltage and his vision went bright at the edges.
Those words. Those are MY words. He uses the same words I use and I am going to—
“You’re thinner,” Matthias observed. “Have you been taking your supplements?”
“I ran out. A few days ago.”
There was a click, the universal disapproving sound of a parent who found the medicine bottle untouched. “Cassiopeia. We’ve discussed how important consistency is for your spiritual regulation. Without your supplements, your body becomes vulnerable to all kinds of harmful—”
“I know. I know, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, dear heart. We’ll get you back on a proper schedule. Now, let me see... these scrapes on your palms. Road damage?”
“Broken glass.”
“Your throat—was that from a hand or a ligature?”
“A hand. One of the…wild Berserkers grabbed me.”
“One of the wild Berserkers,” Matthias repeated gently. “At the roadblock.”
“Yes.”
Riot heard Matthias move—the soft displacement of air, the whisper of his robes—circling. Examining. Taking his time. “These bruises on your hips.”
The silence changed temperature.
“Cassiopeia, I need you to turn around for me. Can you do that?”
“I—”
“It’s all right. It’s just me. I’ve seen all of you before, remember? There’s nothing you need to hide from me. I’m the one who understands.”
Riot’s jaw locked. He stared at the ceiling panel directly above him—white, featureless, infinite—and held himself on the bed with every ounce of control he had left.
“That’s it. Good. Now...” Another pause. Longer. “Your thighs.”
Silence.
“This bruising.”
More silence.
“Brother Cassiopeia, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be truthful with me. Not for my sake. For yours. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Brother Matthias.”
“Has someone come to know your spirit by force?”
