Sevrand had grabbed the Emperor's arm without thinking.
It happened when the guards stood up. All twelve of them stood at once around the Emperor's fire, and they did not look at him. They laid down their sticks and their cups and walked out into the dark, each in a different direction.
Sevrand had reached out to stop the nearest one. He caught the Emperor's sleeve instead.
Now he could not remember why he was holding it.
He looked at the man beside him. Gray hair. Long white coat. A tired face lit orange by the fire. Sevrand had served this man for thirty years, and he looked at him now and felt nothing at all. He might have been a stranger at a market.
His hand stayed on the sleeve. His hand did not seem to know it should let go.
"Archon," the Emperor said. "Do you see it?"
Sevrand saw it.
