A cold, hollow weight settled in Soren's chest as Tía Maria's words sank in.
Guilt, sharp and jagged, tore through his resolve.
He flashed back to only a few days ago—the deal he had made with Sophia to heal the massive, jagged ruin of his own chest.
He remembered the relief of the wound closing back when Aegon had caught him, falling from that destroyed ridge.
But he hadn't cared go check up on her that day as he had a lot of ghjngs to do.
He hadn't seen her body break and reform to mimic his own near-death state.
Meaning that she had carried his agony in silence, a invisible debt he had never even acknowledged.
Am I any different from the Baron? he wondered, his gaze dropping to his boots. Did I want to save her because she's a 'Healer' who can help the party or do I actually give a damn about the girl under the 'saintess mask'?
Soren felt like a hypocrite—a person who spoke of freedom while benefiting from her secret cage of pain.
A heavy shadow fell over him.
