I have often been accused of having an unhealthy fascination with drama. This is, of course, slander, because the truth is far worse.
I don't merely enjoy drama—I live for it, breathe it, savor it like a fine vintage. Which meant that when the white-haired zealot finally turned his gaze toward Rodrick, and my knightly companion looked like he'd just swallowed a live eel, I was positively vibrating with anticipation.
My heart did a peculiar little flip, equal parts terror and thrill, as though the gods themselves had decided to serve me fresh scandal on a silver platter.
The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, and then—like a blade cutting through taut flesh—the man spoke. His voice was deep, edged with contempt sharp enough to shave granite, and it landed with all the grace of a slap across the face.
