"You… who are you?"
Nyarelle's voice was soft, but the weight behind it was colder than steel. Her amethyst eyes caught the dim light of the restaurant, reflecting it like a predator catching the glint of a blade. Her body shifted with the smooth grace of a trained killer; one hand slid almost imperceptibly toward the dagger she kept at her thigh. Every instinct she had screamed threat.
Rhask blinked at her, confusion etching itself into the sharp lines of his face. "Rhask. Why do you ask? Don't you remember me? What year are we in?" His tone was steady, but beneath it lay a tiniest crack; he could feel it, the way the air in the booth had thinned and sharpened. This wasn't the reunion he had imagined. No warm smiles. No relief. Only suspicion.
