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“Doesn’t it?” Manon frowned. “Most can
barely withstand a few months of Valg
infestation. You barely withstood it.” He tried
not to flinch at the blunt words. “Yet he held
on for decades.”
He held her stare. “If you’re trying to cast
my father as some sort of noble hero, you’re
wasting your breath.” He debated ending it
there, but he asked, “If someone told you that
your grandmother was secretly good, that she
hadn’t wanted to murder your parents and so
many others, that she’d been forced to make
you kill your own sister, would you find it so
easy to believe? To forgive her?”
Manon glanced down at her abdomen—at
the scar hidden beneath her leathers. He
braced himself for the answer. But she only
said, “I’m tired of talking.”
Good. So was he.
“Is there something you’d rather do