Aether's Obsession
Guat's mouth opened.
It stayed open.
The large Duskborn, who had an opinion about everything, who had never once in three years been at a loss for words, who had delivered lectures to me with the fluency and stamina of someone who had practiced the art form, made a sound that was not a word. Then he tried again and produced something that was also not a word. A low curse slipped out in Zevhari, rough and involuntary, the kind of thing that escapes before the brain has finished its review process.