In the dim light of the captain’s cabin, the guilt returned.
Phillip hadn’t asked for help; he had repeated that fact to himself every day since Livingston had made use of his oddity. It felt true enough, though most truths didn’t require constant repetition to remain so. Livingston should have said more; he should have explained first. Nonetheless, Phillip was complicit now. And it weighed on him.
There was no denying Farrah was easier to handle now. Phillip hadn’t felt he’d deserved the princess’s ire, but nonetheless it was hers to feel. She was young and naive, and she was grieving. He had dealt with worse without turning to magic.
Phillip had long since given up trusting his own body to carry out his wishes. The metal device strapped painfully to his side was reminder enough of that lesson. He had met a girl who could exsanguinate him with a thought, but even she could not touch his mind.
For so long, he felt sure that his mind was his own. But Avinia had found her way into it. A man he hardly knew had rewritten his friend’s memories. The arm he had trusted for so long, that had saved his life, had been warping his mind for years.
Could he trust his crew? Could he trust himself?
Phillip finished his drink and poured another.