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Once the stir finally quieted, Ketal followed Parco into a reception room. The High Elf knight sat opposite him, still looking as if someone had yanked the ground out from under his feet. Ketal eased into his chair and glanced at the doors, then back at Parco.
“That was a fair bit of commotion,” he said mildly. “What happened?”
Parco was about to talk and then shut again.
You happened. Parco wanted to say that, but in the end, he did not. Fear turned words to ash on the back of his tongue.
Ketal read the silence easily enough. “It was me.”
Parco neither nodded nor denied it, but the lack of denial answered well enough. Ketal scratched his cheek, thoughtful. He had torn the sacred ground’s barrier with force.
Looking back, he had not needed to do that. He could have waited. He could have called Parco out to fetch him in. Instead, pleased that he could pinpoint the sacred ground with Myst-enhanced senses, he had simply pried the barrier open because he could.
It was a barbarian thing to do, something that belonged back in the White Snowfield, not in the world he’d sworn to enjoy without breaking.
Why did I do it? Ketal wondered.
The answer came quickly, ugly in its simplicity: nothing could stop him. It wasn’t even the worst choice available. He could have gone further. He could...
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