None of them had heard him come, save for the split-second of the clinking of his black armor. He was somehow there, and now he was staring at them. Rather idly, Garril admitted, but there was a tacit maliciousness in his red gaze. Did he still remember? “You,” he said in a deep rumbling voice, pointing at Garril. Garril froze. Maybe he did remember, after all those years. “You are the nephew of that singer last night,” he said next. “Give this to her.” And Syrregain handed him a small pouch, before turning away on his heels and walking down the cobblestone path. “Right...” “Now, Toren!” |}