Kaelen sat in the corner of the inn's common room, a half-empty cup of tea growing cold in his hands.
The others were talking around him. Roland was reviewing the day's political developments with a grim expression. Lyra was scribbling notes, her quill scratching against parchment. Alistair and Lysander sat close, their presence warm and familiar.
But Kaelen was not there.
He was watching Roland die.
It was the eighth time that day.
'Crushed beneath falling stone. A blade through the heart. Poison in his wine. A fever that burned through his body in hours. Drowned in a river that had never existed. Struck by lightning on a clear day. Suffocated by a darkness that crawled into his lungs. Torn apart by creatures that had not yet been born.'
Kaelen blinked, and the vision faded. Roland was still there, alive, healthy, arguing with Lyra about the best route to the capital.
Kaelen's hands were trembling.
He set down the teacup before anyone could notice.
