Before the hawk-like eyes of Gideon Thrib, bearing down like an unfathomable mountain, Raven showed no weakness. Despite how poised his eyes remained, he was sizing her up—that she knew.
There were a few in Vastroph who didn't know the name Gideon Thrib. He was an Outerworlder. A foreigner who had been thrown onto a battlefield before he had awakened. He was a tall, stone face that seemed as cold as the golden breastplate he wore.
It hadn't been like that, or so the stories went. Many had proclaimed that Gideon had been a scrawny little shit with bearly enough strength to pick up a dagger when he first arrived. A lie, no doubt, but Altair never thought so. He had marked Gideon as a man to befriend or manipulate from afar. A rare sort of praise she had ever heard from her Master's lips.
They stood in the parlor in a deafening silence that did little to deter Tasha's seductive smile, which never seemed to wane, no matter the situation.
