Lucian didn't touch the drink.
He stared at the mug's rim as if it were a fault line. His hands wouldn't stay still.
Every tiny sound in the tavern pressed against him—the scrape of chairs, the muted thud of boots, someone laughing too loudly by the hearth.
It felt wrong, sitting still like this. Stillness let thoughts creep in.
Stillness meant hearing them again—the screams that weren't his, the faint scrape of something dragging its way toward him through the dark. Coriel had left him with sounds that didn't fade when silence fell.
Abnet folded his arms. "Why can't you concentrate when I'm close? Don't answer yet—listen. It's impossible for anyone to forget sword habits and shift to a staff as quickly as you have. Impossible. Yet you're doing it. And still you block yourself."
Lucian looked away.
"So tell me," Abnet said. "What's troubling you? Or what are you afraid of? Because you're chasing strength like a man trying to outrun fire."
