"Martin." He only spoke after he made it all the way over to where Martin lay.

It was Martin, as strange and warped as he'd become. Still Martin, always. No matter what anyone else was calling him. But it hurt to see him like this. It hurt more than seeing or hearing about the victims, about the damage, about anything else. Bariyan was now too tired to deny that much.

He crouched down and reached out to touch the boy's shoulder, the spell for sleeping already at his fingertips.