Lydia didn't remember when Otho's arm fell around her shoulders, but she was grateful for the touch. 'I've killed twice.' She thought, her mind racing and exhausted. 'Would this be what Dryassiad wanted? Another warrior prophet?' She thought about it, and hated that it was a legitimate possibility. Otho didn't say a word, but just kept his arm around her. She could have sworn that Gerald said something to Otho, but she couldn't care less.
What disturbed her more than anything was how easy it had been.
The first kill, with that mad druidess, she had hesitated and had, honestly, not been intending to kill. This time the intention was there. She had meant to kill him. She had killed him. And now he was dead and his blood was already almost touching her dress as she cried. She scooted a little away, pulling the Wizard with her, and her tears finished. The warmth of someone else. How had she never thought that that could be something good before?
