Soren's hand lingered midair, suspended over an empty space. His breath hitched. It took him a second to realise he was standing upright—but leaning heavily against the side of the carriage. His body trembled faintly, but not from poison. The haze of the vision still clung to his mind like smoke after a fire.
His hand had been at Riven's neck in that vision. His voice, calm and hollow, still echoed in his head: "The chance of survival is low. Rather than let you take your own life, let me set you free."
There hadn't been hate in his voice. No rage, no sorrow, not even grief. Just... Resignation. Cold, indifferent, clinical. As if he were merely tying up loose ends.
