Laith’s hands slipped down her body, gripped her ribs, her waist, higher, lower, everywhere. There. Her pistol. Arthie wasn’t hungry anymore. Her mind was not clouded by starvation, and suddenly, everything wrenched to a startling halt as the pieces fell into place. The way Calibore’s intricate filigree reminded her of Laith. Those accidental brushes of her pistol. His keen interest in how it worked. The story of the hilya his sister was sent to retrieve. It was Calibore. Her pistol was the hilya.
