For a moment, Owain could barely think as he stared at the bear's head pommel of the sword his father presented to him. From the hilt and sheath alone, it was clear that more than one master had worked on its construction, and even if the materials were common, the craftsmanship was very good. Most knights would be envious of such a weapon, assuming that the blade within was as well-made as everything that surrounded it.
But it wasn't the sword that claimed Owain's attention. It was what the sword represented, the cruelty of his father's 'way out,' that truly took Owain's breath away. Exile. Worse than exile. Exile without the right to keep even his own name. His father expected 'Owain Lothian' to die here, just as surely as Bors himself would die.
