"I have added more," he says. "The previous selection was insufficient."
Nox lets her eyes move along the wall, her fingers passing over the fabric in a way that suggests consideration. "They are beautiful," she says, because that is what Brinette would say.
"They are not correct," he replies. "I need you to choose one. For this evening."
Nox pauses. "For this evening," she repeats.
"She will be dining with me," he says. "She should be presentable."
The sound reaches her before she sees it, low and wet, carrying through the chamber with a quality that does not belong in a place like this. She stills, letting her intunar slip just enough to brush against whatever has entered the space. What meets her is something fractured and unstable, a pattern that dissolves as it is grasped.
The Morrak steps through the doorway. What follows him is dragged rather than guided.
The smell arrives before the full picture of it does. Rot layered with something damp and sour. Gray skin hanging too loosely along what remains of the frame, one arm gone at the shoulder, the other slack, the face offering nothing recognizable beyond the hollow of one eye socket and the dulled surface of the other. The hair, matted and darkened by decay, still carries a faint trace of gold beneath the ruin.
Nox tilts her head slightly. "What is that?"
Sevrin turns toward her with the same calm he has carried since she entered. "There was an incident," he says. "We believe Asharin may be dead." A pause. "I am not certain. I continue to search as I always have."
She looks back toward the body. "Is this her?"
"I do not know," he says. "The face offers nothing usable. The arms are gone." He steps closer, studying the ruined strands of hair. "But this gives me reason to consider the possibility."
"And until you know?"
"She will be kept comfortably elsewhere," he says. "She will not be placed in Asharin's rooms until I am certain."
Nox turns back to the gowns, more briefly this time. The smell has not improved. She stops at a deep blue silk, running her fingers along the edge of it. "Something with coverage," she says, more to herself than to him. "Given the circumstances."
Sevrin does not respond to that.
She moves further along. A wine-colored velvet, high-necked, long-sleeved. She pulls it free and turns toward him, holding it up. "This one."
He studies it briefly. "Why that one?"
"The color will be forgiving," she says. "And the fabric is heavy enough that it will hold its own."
He considers it, then nods once.
Nox sets it aside. "She will be dining with you," she says. "I did not know the undead ate traditional foods."
"They do not," he replies.
She looks at him. "Then what will it eat?"
He turns toward her fully, something cooling in his expression. "She," he says. The correction is quiet and precise and leaves no room for misunderstanding.
Nox inclines her head slightly. "What will she eat?"
"A human will be brought in," he says. "Of her choosing."
"And you?"
"I will watch.” Something moves through his expression, unhurried and entirely certain of itself. "It will please me to watch if it is her." A pause. "If it is not her, it will not be pleasing."
Nox finds herself wondering how he expects to discern one from the other given the current state of things, but she lets the thought go.
"Will you stop looking if it is not her?" she asks.
