"I am right, aren't I?"
Cael's voice cut through the rain like a blade. It was sharp, mocking, and filled with a bitterness that had been festering for years.
His sword was still pointed at me, the tip trembling slightly from his drunken grip. The rain streamed down the blade, mixing with the water dripping from his hair.
I was silent. I could not answer. I could not agree or disagree, because both would be a lie.
Cael continued his laughter. It was bitter and hollow, a sound that did not belong in this place. It echoed through the cemetery, carried by the wind, swallowed by the rain.
Then he spat out a single word,
"Hypocrite."
He threw away the empty bottle and reached into his space pouch for another bottle; his movements were clumsy, uncoordinated.
But the bottle slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground. Fortunately, it did not break.
Then Cael was clutching his hand in pain. It was the same hand that had punched my face. The hand bone was fractured.
