Chapter 22: Chat
Cain sips his tea with an air of complete serenity, the porcelain cup delicate in his fingers. The soft clink of ceramic against wood is the only sound between us. I sit slouched in the plush chair across from him, eyes closed, exhaustion weighing down on me like a house was sitting on my shoulders. The whispers are gone now, the embers of my rage smothered, leaving behind nothing but the dull ache of regret and lack of adrenaline.
For a few minutes, Cain lets the silence linger, his presence a steady, unshakable force in the room. Then, finally, he speaks.
"Well," he muses, setting his cup down with an infuriating amount of grace, "the good news is we know your trigger. Or at least, the ones for the fear and illusion aspects of your marks."
I crack one eye open, watching him as he leans back against his chair, expression carefully guarded. "Did you sense anything about the regenerator power?" he asks, voice calm, but laced with an edge of curiosity.
I sigh and shift, rubbing at my temple. "I don't think so," I grumble. "If it was there, I didn't notice. Probably means there's a separate trigger for that one."
Cain grunts lost in thought, swirling the remaining tea in his cup before setting it aside. Then, he grimaces. "The bad news," he continues, "is that your trigger is a double-edged sword. Hate is a vile, uncontrollable emotion. It eats at you, corrupts you, makes you reckless." He pauses, then smirks, "Though, given your insufferable edge-lord tendencies, you might be able to find some sort of balance with it."
My eyes snap open fully, and I sit up, scowling. "Edge-lord tendencies?" I repeat, incredulous. "Oh, fuck you."
Cain grins like a man thoroughly enjoying himself. "Oh, don't give me that look. All you do it glare and pout and talk about how much you hate life and the Empire. Real Edge lord tendencies if you ask me man.
I scoff, crossing my arms. " I do not glare. Nor do I pout.