“You are overextending your right shoulder.”
He smiles. “Liar.”
“Yes.”
“Careless of you to admit it.”
“I was being polite.”
“Terrifying.”
He turns back to the target and strikes again. The rod lands with a dull crack, splitting the canvas seam. He follows with three more blows, precise and fast, as if the conversation is beneath him and the target has offended his lineage.
“You felt me look,” I say.
“I feel many things. Damp air. Moral fatigue. The tragic absence of decent coffee.”
“Corin.”
The rod lowers.
He does not turn around this time. “Do not.”
The word is soft, but it carries.
I study the line of his back. “You know something is changing.”
“I know enough to dislike being discussed like a specimen.”
“You are not a specimen.”
“How generous.”
“You are altered.”
He exhales, slow and controlled. “That does sound better than infected, I suppose. Slightly more flattering. More room for accessories.”
“This is serious.”
He turns at last, and the humor remains on his mouth while his eyes carry something leaner. “Yes, Your Majesty. I had gathered that when my hand sealed itself like a party trick and my reflection began entertaining opinions.”
The wind moves through the yard, stirring loose strands of his hair. His shadow lies at his feet, obedient in daylight, though essence sight taught me better than to trust its stillness.
“How long?” I ask.
“Since the ritual.”
“Which ritual?”
“Do be specific? We’ve had a buffet of catastrophes.”
“The merging.”
His smile thins. “Since then, yes.”
My fingers curl once at my sides. “You should have said.”
“To whom? Sable, who had finally stopped looking at mirrors like time might leap out and bite her? You, who were two sincere conversations away from trying to solve guilt with a second ritual and better penmanship?”
