Zarius stood on the cobblestones, the wind whipping his dark hair across eyes that refused to blink. Almost fifteen, he was already tall enough that his father's shadow didn't quite cover him anymore, though he still felt the weight of it pressing down on his shoulders like a cloak.
Beside him, Marielle's small, warm hand was a frantic pulse against his palm. She was clinging to him, her knuckles white, her breath coming in short, visible puffs of white mist.
"You have your orders," Duke Lario said, his voice as dry as parchment, barely audible over the restless shifting of the cavalry. He sat atop his black warhorse, a statue of iron and ego. He didn't lean down to embrace them. He didn't offer a final word of fatherly comfort. He looked at Zarius not as a son, but as a lieutenant left in charge of a crumbling fortress.
