It’s his eyes that are more startling than his ragged, enraged appearance. That gray gaze is like smoke billowing from the hottest fire, and yet, cold like chips of ice, piercing like the tips of icicles. Those eyes betray the horror he feels, looking like they did the night I saw him take his first life. I did this to him. I killed his father. But he killed mine first. He knows what I’ve done. I doubt he would forget the distinct look of the dagger I’ve pressed against his throat so many times—the same dagger that is now protruding from his father’s throat. And yet, his knife missed me.
