Her sea-green eyes were wet. The tears — the dragon's tears, the tears that she had not shed in a century — were there. In her eyes. Not falling. Not yet. But there. Pooling. The evidence of an emotion that she did not understand. That she could not name. That was — not grief. Not joy. Not fear. Something else. Something that she had never felt.
"What happened?" he said.
His voice was soft. The question was genuine. The voice of a man who sees tears and who asks.
"I..." she stammered. Her voice broke. The word did not come. The sentence did not form. The Empress — the articulate, the eloquent, the ruler — could not speak. "I do not know. I have never..."
She trailed off.
