Pain came in layers.
First, the sharp memory of it—steel biting flesh, heat, the humiliating shock of resistance where there should have been none. Then the deeper ache beneath, pulsing steadily now, controlled by poultices and linen bindings soaked through and replaced without ceremony.
Maric welcomed all of it.
Pain meant he had survived. Pain meant the blood still flowed through his body, though cold and relentless.
He sat alone in the upper chamber of the Inner Fort, the highest room that still smelled faintly of incense and old authority. His old, drunkard of a father had favored this place once—had liked the way the windows looked out over the city without ever opening wide enough to invite the noise in. A King'sview, Therin had called it.
Maric had not changed the room. Not yet.
