At fifteen, a visiting noble's son made a comment about River's brand during a formal reception.
The comment was quiet. Delivered with the smiling, poisonous precision of a boy who understood exactly how much damage words could do when aimed at the right wound. He said it in passing, to his companions, loud enough for River to catch the edge of it and quiet enough that confronting it would have required her to admit she'd heard something that was designed to land beneath the threshold of formal complaint.
River's chin lifted. Her composure held. The composure always held. That was the gift and the curse of her soul in every life: the composure was load-bearing and the load was immense and the bearing looked effortless because the effort was hidden.
Lucian found the boy an hour later.
