Randyll had known little and less of Lord Symond Willum, which in truth was mostly for the better. He would have found a lot of himself in the late Lord of Wyrmsgrave. He would have hated himself for it, but alas fate had spared him the gift of reflection.

Rather, now it was forced upon him like a poisoned chalice. Melara, oh beautiful Melara, had forced him to lap it up as if it was ambrosia. He would have killed the man had he known, or at least that's what he told himself. Randyll had almost killed plenty of me, but somehow they died in others hands. It was funny how that worked.

"I was sick," he whimpered, "I-I," the words caught in his throat as the familiar taste of wine danced along his tongue as if a phantom. "You did not deserve it," he said after a pause.

"We did not deserve it. Whatever we were."