Doubt was a cold poison.
Caldan sat on the edge of the stone slab, the phantom image of Arin's golden eyes burned into his mind. It was a masterful cruelty, a detail so intimate, so perfectly wrong, that it had shattered the whole illusion. Dhaelon hadn't just shown him Arin; he'd shown him Arin wearing a Kaerythene mask, a mockery of their bloodline.
The visions were a lie. A lure. A performance.
But was she a lie?
Was the terror in her face in the vision his brother's puppetry, or was it her own? Was the tremor in her hand as she drove a knife into his chest her own weakness, or his brother's strength?
He felt a phantom probe at the edge of his thoughts, a cold slither of awareness that was not his own. Dhaelon. Listening. Laughing. Caldan slammed a mental wall into place, a barrier of pure will he'd practiced building for years. It was exhausting. He couldn't keep it up forever.
