“I know you,” Caleb says, with the infuriating, absolute calm of a man who knows what it’s like to sit at the table with gods and deathless kings, casting dice and tossing jokes about like there’s no tomorrow. “And I know you don’t believe that sacrifices are ever necessary, but – “

Kopil’s hand closes involuntarily around Caleb’s wrist, bone on skin; it’s an effort to relax his grip, even though he knows that Caleb’s sudden stillness is pain, and a greater effort still to set aside reprimand and say what he really means: I don’t want to lose you too.