A pair of sour, dark eyes freckled in deep brown met Blake's gaze. They were cold and chilly, but a fierce, unbroken bravery burned within them.
Kneeling beneath the proud standard of House Elio, the Lord of Eshad awaited the victor's grim due. A single line of sweat trailed down his dirt-streaked temple, losing itself in the iron groove of his battered gorget.
"His head! His head! Cut off his fucking head!"
That was all Blake could hear ascending from the chorus of drunken, blood-mad voices rising and falling across the camp. The Sea-King ignored them. He walked the slow, heavy steps up to the captive lord, using the cold, curved blade of his battleaxe to catch the man beneath the chin, forcing his head up until they were gazing directly into one another's eyes.
