Rhazek says nothing.
I say nothing too, which costs more than either man deserves.
Corin looks at the sealed place, then at us, and laughs with easy, polished carelessness. “Well. Good diet.”
I tilt my head. “Porridge again?”
“Miracle grain.”
Rhazek’s expression is unreadable, which means he is reading everything. “You should clean the blade.”
“Yes, father.”
“I am not old enough to be your father.”
Corin’s eyes flick over him. “Debatable in spirit.”
The banter moves on because Corin shoves it forward with both hands, all elegant deflection and irritating sparkle. I let him. For now. Some truths are wild animals; if you lunge, they bolt.
Later, when the sun begins to drop and the house windows turn amber, I find him inside near the hall mirror.
He does not know I am there at first. He stands with one hand braced against the side table, head bowed, breathing slower than a man who has only been walking from the yard. His reflection watches itself with naked suspicion.
Then his eyes flicker gold.
Faint. Quick. Almost nothing.
The mirror catches it better than the room does: a warm flash beneath his pale irises, gone before I draw a full breath.
Corin lifts his head, and our eyes meet in the glass.
“Lurking?” he asks.
“Passing.”
“Poorly.”
“You taught me.”
He turns, smile already in place, quick as a curtain falling over a window. “Then you should be much better at it.”
I look at the mirror, then back at him. The hall is dim; late light spills through the cracked panes and scatters over brass fixtures, polished wood, and the gilt edge of the glass. It could have been the lighting. It could have been candle reflection. It could have been another strange effect of wards and iron and all the magical nonsense we keep surviving through sheer stubbornness.
I choose, for the moment, to let it be lighting.
“You should rest,” I say.
“How maternal.”
“You look terrible.”
“Ah. Sisterly, then.”
“Corin.”
His smile thins, then gentles in a way he probably does not intend. “I am all right.”
The lie is neat, old, well-fed.
