Silas’s voice was calm, almost gentle. But no less deadly for it. It was the kind of voice you’d remember in a nightmare—not because of its volume, but because of the certainty it carried.
He didn’t bother standing.
I didn’t move either.
I watched him in silence.
His face was still in shadow, but little by little, the nearby lamp revealed more. He was young. Or at least he wanted to seem that way. Sharp features, ageless skin, eyes too dark to reflect light. No visible scars, but a tightness in his muscles that spoke of many fights—and of violence not always restrained.
“You look like him,” he said, as if speaking to himself.
“Like who?”
“Your father.”
I didn’t blink.
I didn’t look away.
Skadi growled low inside me, like a muffled echo in my chest.
“You knew who he was,” I said.
