Tremors spilled into Xerius’s hands. He clasped them together. Attempted to gather his thoughts. Looked away from their wolfish faces. All those years ago! Fumbling with a small black vial the size of a child’s finger, pouring the poison into his father’s ear. His father! And his mother’s . . . no, Istriya’s voice thundering in his thoughts: The dynasty, Xerius! The dynasty!
Again, the hands are Xerius's tic. The ear poison calls King Hamlet's death at Claudius's hands to mind; is a son to revenge his ancestor on an uncle soon?
