Levan lay slumped against the broad cushion of the armchair, but there was nothing restful in his posture. His arm while covering his face betrayed nothing of the way his jaw clenched, his shoulders rigid, his breath sharp as though it had nowhere to go but back into his chest.
Dead.
The word gnawed at him mercilessly until he thought it might drive him mad.
Dead. Dead. Dead!
Five years of waiting. Five years of following whispers, chasing scraps of hope through shadows and silence. And at last, when the veil had nearly lifted, when the answers had been within reach, she was dead. Just like that, the truth he had clawed toward had vanished with her last breath.
A curse seared the back of his tongue, but he swallowed it. His hand twitched once as if tempted to sweep the heavy books from the table and hurl them into the fire, but he stayed still, forcing the anger down. His temple throbbed with the pressure of restraint.
"...Damn it all," he cursed anyway.
