He was looking. He was looking and he knew Lucanis would know he was looking, because he there was no escaping the multiangled tailor mirrors in this room. He should probably stop.

But he was still looking.

The good news was he wouldn't ever feel subpar about his stitching when it came to patching up Lucanis. The scars may be straight and neat, professionally done, but no attention had gone in to preventing the lingering marks. If Lucanis' brother was half as vain as the man seemed to suggest, no wonder he had a particular bone to pick with his upbringing. It wasn't just his back, either. Legs, arms. A lifetime marked before the torture.

Said he'd get us out, but he stays.

Just how many people could Lucanis stand to escape from?

The only help Davrin was in filling the silence was reaching for another pastry, chewing softly. And looking.