“Tell us of the good,” Abia says, her voice gentle but unyielding, like that of a patient mother.
“He taught me everything I know,” Shyan says plainly. “Each technique, each flowing movement, they all came from Master Davit.” She meets Abia’s eyes, her gaze intense. “He was loved and feared by all. And I—”
Cang and Fassn shift in their seats, leaning in to hear.
“—I was hated, for having got the space as his pupil. For having got it, and…” She squeezes her eyes closed, the tight lines around them paling. “And throwing that gods-damned punch.”