Jolthar understood immediately why Milan's voice had softened when he spoke of her.
Sarojina was beautiful in a way that didn't announce itself loudly — dark hair threaded faintly with silver she made no effort to hide, eyes that carried the particular depth of someone who had lived a complicated life and made peace with most of it, a stillness to her that felt less like restraint and more like a woman who had simply learned, long ago, exactly how much of herself the world deserved to see. There was something faintly unplaceable about her, a quality that made Jolthar's attention linger a beat longer than courtesy required.
"Milan." She rose and crossed to him, taking his face in both hands the way mothers did regardless of how tall their sons had grown. "And Andrion." She reached for him too, and for a moment both of her sons stood bracketed by her hands, and something in her expression cracked open entirely.
