Stone Circle every little lie in this world comes from dividing

Something shifts in her expression, which he watches in silent curiosity. Her eyes narrow and he feels his spine stiffen in automatic response. But then her head dips. Vermouth’s own eyes squint a little as he regards the stiff movement.

“I need to hunt again,” he announces, swiveling, “since someone ate my supper.”

He says nothing else. Vermouth tells himself not to bother with her further. Their exchange had been as brief and meaningless as any other. And she’s svart, for better or for worse. As this black word drifts through his mind, his own face darkens. He does not look back.