“You wanted to hold my hand,” he said sleepily. “I what?” “The day you earned your scar. Two-year-old Eisa wanted to hold my hand while walking on Sunnvald’s fountain.” “You must have been appalled.” “Disgusted,” Rey agreed. “But then you fell…” He exhaled. “And I felt such a fool, so prideful that I let harm befall you. When you cried, I carried you into the castle and found the healer. And while they stitched you up”—he paused, gathering himself—“I did not let go of your hand.”
