The days bled into a slow, monotonous rhythm of pain and suspicion. Auren's visits became a ritual. He would bring her food, his face a mask of hardened duty, and the interrogation would begin anew.
It was a delicate, dangerous dance.
"Did Caldan ever speak of his brother?" Auren asked one afternoon, the light from the window catching the gold in his hair. He sat in the chair, a book lying open and ignored in his lap. He had tried a new tactic: feigned casualness. It didn't suit him.
"Which one?" Arin countered, her voice sharp. She had been testing the strength of the bindings on her splinted leg, a fruitless, painful exercise. "The mad one locked in a tower, or the snake who serves my dinner?"
Auren's jaw tightened. "Dhaelon. Did Caldan speak of him?"
