What's the point of an apology? It won't bring back the dead. Trying to explain himself would be worse. He betrayed them, all of them, grasping at temptation for just a few moments, but those few moments were enough to damn him and dozens of others. Rolan owes him nothing, and Zevlor was half-braced for the other tiefling to spit in his face.

What he says to him is no more or less than the truth, and for some reason that's reassuring. In another time and place, he might have been pleased to see Rolan's honest pride. Might have told him how much he reminds Zevlor of himself, when he was a new Hellrider, determined to prove his worth and spite the world. No one would benefit from that comparison right now. "I know. I went back and made sure the bodies of the others were properly buried."

The Shadowlands are healed now. Flowers will cover the cairn. It's inadequate, but it's something. Better than imagining their brethren with their bones picked clean by shadow-ravens.

But back to the matter at hand. The way Rolan looks around the room sends a frisson of anger up the back of Zevlor's neck, because it tells him everything: Whoever hurt him is watching. Whether Rolan is being prideful or whether he's afraid of reprisal, he can't know for sure, but he guesses it's both.

"You sell healing potions here, don't you?" His tone is light now, deceptively casual.

Of course they do. And Rolan hasn't been given access to them, despite being in the public eye. He's on display.