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    Summary

    “And you?” Petyr asked, his eyes finally rising to meet yours. “Have you been corrupted?”

    You thought about the power you had been granted by the mark burned into the back of your hand. You thought about the rushing warmth of strength and power and tingling, crackling energy. You thought about how it had felt melting your way through Arianrhod Prison like a hot knife cutting butter, the cloak of void allowing you to slink through the shadows and kill guards before they even knew you were there.

    You thought about the man who came to your cell that freezing winter’s night and asked if you wished to live. Yes, he was just a man. He introduced himself really quite simply with an elegant bow, his name and title. Count Hubert von Vestra. An interested party, he said. He told you that you had the potential for something greater, to make more of yourself than a petty criminal beheaded for petty crimes.

    “I might be,” you finally answered.

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