#maia!!!!

Maia caught not one of their names, his memory already water-logged and sinking beneath the weight of the evening’s cargo. They were all very much of a type, tall and narrow-faced, eyes pale blue and pale green and pale gray, their features sharp but oddly empty—young men who had never been lonely or afraid or devastated by grief. They ran out the same limp platitudes about Min Vechin’s singing that Maia had been listening to all evening, and he responded as best he could.