CALDAN
The steel was cold.
That was the first thought. Stupid, irrelevant, the kind of thought a mind produces when it's trying not to think about the thing that actually matters. The blade against his throat was cold. His own sword. His own steel. Pressed against the pulse in his neck by the hand of his twin brother.
There's a metaphor in there somewhere. Probably a cruel one.
"You know," Dhaelon said, conversational, intimate, as if they were alone instead of kneeling in a burning courtyard surrounded by puppets and prisoners and the broken remains of a kingdom, "I practiced this moment. In the cell. I practiced it a thousand times. I'd close my eyes and picture exactly how it would feel to stand over you with a blade at your throat. I imagined it would feel powerful."
He paused. Tilted the sword. The edge bit—just a thread, just a whisper—and warm blood ran down Caldan's neck into his collar.
"It doesn't," Dhaelon said. "It feels sad."
Good. Let it eat you.
