It happened in an instant.
One of those hideous instants where the world rips itself open like a poorly sewn seam, where time doesn't stop but rather staggers forward like a drunkard, wobbling, letting you see far too much in the space of a heartbeat.
Lysaria's eyes found mine across the glittering expanse of the colosseum, across the crimson banners and perfumed balconies, across the laughter of the nobles who thought themselves gods.
His eyes—oh saints, those eyes—were no longer the proud, mocking jewels I remembered, nor the sly, venomous flames that had once coaxed me into ruin with nothing but a smile. No, they were wide, desperate, liquid with recognition.
And then they burst.
Not in some metaphorical poetic way—no, I mean literally burst into tears, hot rivulets cutting down his bruised cheeks as though his own body had finally revolted against silence.
