"It is not hard for me," Raven said.
His voice cut through her stammering. Not loud. Not sharp. Quiet. The way a blade is quiet.
"I am the one," he said, "after all, who dealt with Prince Goliath."
She stared.
Her green eyes went wide. The pupils dilated. The whites showed.
Prince Goliath. The Crown Prince's younger brother. The man who had been attacked— in his own chamber, in his own palace, surrounded by his own guards. Someone had entered. Someone had erased his shoulder. Had removed it. Had made it gone. The healers had been called. The mages had been called. The Church had been called. No one could restore it. The shoulder was gone. The arm was gone. The man was alive but broken— a vegetative state, a thing in a bed, a prince who had been reduced to a twitching, screaming ruin.
