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had stolen, it lay—the little snarl in his magic.
Not a snarl, but a knot—a knot in a tapestry.
One that he might weave.
One he might fashion into something if he
dared.
Who do you wish to be? he asked the barely
woven tapestry within himself. Let the threads
and knots take form, crafting the picture
within his mind. Starting small.
Glennis chuckled. “Your eyes are green
now, king.”
Dorian started, heart thundering. The
others again halted their lunches, gaping,
some leaning in to peer at him more closely.
But he fed his magic into the loom within
himself, adding to the emerging picture.
“Och, golden hair does not suit you at all.”
Asterin grimaced. “You look sickly.”
Who did he wish to be? Anyone but
himself. But what he’d become.