Chapter 209: The Envoy Goes Home
The room they moved him to had a window.
Envoy Thalis Corwyn sat on the edge of a bed that was far too comfortable and stared at his own hands.
He turned them over. He flexed each finger in sequence. Index. Middle. Ring. Thumb.
Every joint moved perfectly. The skin was unmarked. The nail beds were clean and pink and whole.
'There is nothing,' he thought. 'There is not one mark on me.'
He had screamed in that stone room until his voice tore. He had felt his own bones fold backward in ways bones were not built to fold. He had watched a nail lift away from the flesh in slow, deliberate increments.
And he could not prove a single second of it.
If he walked into the Senate tomorrow and described it, they would look at his flawless hands and diagnose exhaustion. Diplomatic strain. A man cracking under a long posting.
A tray sat untouched on the side table. Bread, cured meat, a pot of tea that had been hot an hour ago.
