Six weeks.
I sat across from Senna and watched Caelan from the corner of my eye and catalogued, with the sick clarity of someone who had just been given the correct lens for a blurry picture, every moment in the past four days that I had attributed to his character and now reread as symptoms.
The extra stillness. The careful words. The moment in the gallery when he had said Yseult’s name and then stopped, as though the next word had simply not been available.
The way his silver eyes went white under pressure faster than seemed proportionate to the situation. The controlled fury that was just slightly too controlled, like a man holding a door shut against something heavy on the other side.
A fractured soul did not kill you. Thessaly had explained this in clipped, efficient sentences wh
