“Tan!” Itri cursed. “Netra tan!”
The contents of the syringe he had been hiding in his pocket all morning still dripped to the floor as Itri stood over his convulsing sister, gaping. No one would believe he had actually dosed her with Pigrann now. No one had ever started seizing afterwards.
More than anything, Itri hoped - no, he prayed to Eoil, that her reaction to whatever that cocktail contained, wouldn’t kill her. “Please don’t die.”
A quick glance to the observation window confirmed one of his fears. The Emperor - Itri still couldn’t believe the man he hated more than anyone in the entire galaxy was standing so close to him - seemed to finally recognize Itri. A different sort of panic shadowed his features, planted through his gaze. With the Emperor’s eyes locked on him, there remained only so much time left for their escape.
