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    Summary

    The scribe knew that, like his other fellow former tribe members, this man survived not merely because of his strength, but also because he was intelligent enough to know when to withdraw from a fight and stay out of futile infighting. This Eremite was obviously one of the smartest people in the room.

    Al-Haitham's senses went on full alert, anticipating any movement that the Eremite might make. A big hand stretched out in front of him for a handshake, and all he could do was stare at it, at every bit of detail on its rough, callused skin.

    “Don't like handshakes?” The deep voice sounded amused.

    Haitham raised his gaze to meet the Eremite's eyes–hidden behind blinders with King Deshret's sight mark. He gave the bigger man a short, business-like handshake, just firm enough to communicate his reluctance at their forced acquaintance.

    Language:
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