For a fraction of a second, his eyes flash gold.
I freeze.
It’s faint. Quick. Gone almost before I can process it, but I know what I saw. Not reflection. Not light. Not imagination.
Gold.
The same hue that threads through Rhazek’s infernal fire.
The same color that flickers in the bond when power aligns just right.
“Did you see that?” I ask quietly.
“See what?”
“That.”
He frowns. “You’re going to have to be less cryptic.”
“Your eyes.”
“My eyes are perfectly functional, thank you.”
“They just—” I stop, recalibrate, try again. “They changed.”
He stares at me.
Then laughs.
Not the sharp, deflective laugh he uses when dodging something dangerous.
This one is lighter.
Too light.
“I assure you, if my eyes were doing anything dramatic, I’d be the first to notice.”
“I noticed.”
“You also think I’m secretly a culinary miracle because of porridge.”
“That’s not—” I exhale sharply. “Corin.”
“Sable.”
I step closer, narrowing the distance until there’s no space for easy escape. “Something is happening.”
“Something is always happening.”
“Not like this.”
He tilts his head, studying me now instead of dodging. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
His expression shifts again, softer this time, more thoughtful. Then he glances down at his hand, flexes his fingers once as if testing something invisible.
“I didn’t feel anything,” he says.
