Veric comes back to himself in pieces.
His soul drips back into his body in pieces—slow first, then all at once. There are so many questions sitting on his face that I couldn't number half of them.
"How did you—?"
The first one he manages to verbalize.
"Same way I made eighteen Plates in two weeks."
The silence comes back. He's processing each word individually, turning them over, looking for the seams.
"Fucking hell, Sands." He blinks twice. Slow. "I really underestimated you. How the hell did you find my father on Earth?"
His sentences are coming out half-shaped. The brain is using too much bandwidth on the math, and the language module is brownouting.
"Calm down and take me to the old man. We have things to talk about."
I stand up. Adjust Eventide on my hip.
Veric runs both hands through his hair. I can't tell if it's despair, discomfort, or some private negotiation happening between our power dynamic and his survival instincts.
He stands too.
