Rhydor's POV
The cut was gone, not even a ghost of it left on the skin. Just the same arm it had always been, smooth and unmarked, like Isadora's sword had never touched it at all. My body had handled that part efficiently, and without asking for my permission, as it always did.
The rest of it, my body had left entirely alone.
I ran my thumb over the spot again without deciding to.
The tavern was the kind of place that did not ask questions. Low ceilings, warm from too many bodies and not enough windows, the smell of ale and candle smoke sitting in everything including the walls. Music came from somewhere at the back, a string instrument played by someone who was either very good or just drunk enough to sound like it. Women in low-cut and revealing dresses moved between the tables with practiced ease, laughing at things men said, refilling cups without being asked.
Nobody looked at our corner table twice.
