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Summary
He blinked and peered up through his lashes, let the tension in is posture and face melt away and, with it, years of his appearance so that he looked like the kid he still was, would have been, should have been, had the Empire not snatched away any vestige of youthful innocence and carved him into something hard and bitter well before his time.
It was not lost on Brasso that the transformation was an act, a front, a tactic; it was still unsettling to watch. More unsettling was the quiet, unassuming, “What do you want?” in a tone Brasso had not before heard spit from his all-too-cutting mouth.