Shyan says, “I was training with master Davit.” She sniffles. “He ordered me to strike.”
“How are yer arms feelin’?” Fassn asks.
She lifts them experimentally, flaps them like a baby bird trying to take off from the test. “Better, actually.”
“I suppose we can count the antidote as a success,” Cang says.
“And you?” Shyan asks Fassn.
“Me? My arms are great! I miss my wings, but what can you do?”
“I mean, what did you see? What happened?”
A beatific smile spreads on Fassn’s dry lips. “Old Ajralan taught me how to feel.”