A white streak ran the long length from scalp to tip. Martise reached out and stroked the silky lock, her fingers brushing against his cheek. “When did you get this?” His mouth curved into a faint smile. “A few weeks ago. I woke up one morning sporting this proof of my declining years. I’ve yet to decide if it’s the result of the ritual or what Gurn served me for dinner the night before.” “It suits you. You look almost civilized,” she teased.
