Freedom
Freedom had smelled like pie.
He vaguely remembered that conversation with Lucasta, so long ago when they walked the streets of Amaranthine, smelling a newly baked pastry on a house wife's window sill. It filled him with a sense of joy then.
Now the streets were void of that happiness though he had far more freedom than he had ever possessed. No Templars dogged his days. He was answerable to none.
It had cost him dear, this freedom: his cat, his name, his friends.
Newly christened "Kristoff" could not smell freedom with Ander's nose.
Freedom now smelled like ripe garbage.