Gods help me.
It feels like what he described when he talked about Sable.
The way his voice would change, quieter, more dangerous, like the world had narrowed to a single point and he was choosing, constantly, not to burn everything else away just to reach it.
The woman looks up.
Our eyes meet through the glass.
The world tilts.
There’s recognition there.
Not familiarity.
Not memory.
Something deeper, stranger, more immediate.
Her expression shifts—surprise first, then something sharper, something that mirrors the sudden intensity clawing through my own chest. Her hand stills over the table, fingers curling slightly as if she’s feeling it too.
I step back.
Because I need distance.
Because I need to think.
Because I need to not crash through a Dark Elf Noble’s window like a lunatic driven by whatever the hell this is.
“Right,” I say under my breath. “That’s new.”
The pull doesn’t lessen.
If anything, it tightens, a steady thread connecting me to that room, that woman, that moment of shared recognition neither of us understands.
I drag a hand down my face.
“This is a problem.”
Understatement.
I glance back at the window.
She’s still there.
Still watching.
Still—feeling it.
I can tell.
And that terrifies me more than anything else.
Because this isn’t one-sided.
This isn’t me losing control.
This is something shared.
