A Y L A
Raiden lowered his hand slowly. The movement cost him more than he let on, I saw it in the tightening of his jaw, the way his shoulders sagged for half a breath before he forced himself upright again. Still, the silence held. No one dared speak without his permission.
His gaze shifted, not to me, but to the Seer.
“Is such a demand permitted?” he asked.
His voice was rough, scraped raw, but it carried. Every word landed heavy, final.
The Seer studied him for a long moment, her pale eyes narrowing slightly as if she were looking past flesh and bone, past sickness and crowns, into something older. Deeper. Then her gaze slid to me. I felt it like fingers brushing against my skull.
“Final words may be spoken,” she said slowly. “And truth, when demanded, has a way of forcing its pl
