I would love to tell you that Fitch did something dramatic after pointing at me — that he lunged forward, or that the sky cracked open with lightning, or that someone screamed my name as though I'd just been nominated for immediate execution — but no, of course not.
Fitch was not a man to waste effort on theatrics when casual disregard worked twice as well. Instead, he simply dropped his hand, shoved it lazily back into his pocket, and with that damn whistle curling back between his lips, he strolled right past me.
Past Salem, past Rodrick, past the naked knight who looked positively crestfallen that he wasn't receiving Fitch's attention, and most insultingly of all, past Nara, who was still flushed from his new form and gripping his dagger like he actually intended to use it.
