Alpheo reclined into the broad, cushioned chair that served more as a throne than simple seating. One leg draped lazily over the other, his elbow rested on the carved wooden arm, chin nestled in his palm, gaze fixed with mild curiosity on the boy standing before him.
Fifteen, maybe sixteen? he mused silently, brow arching. Should I be offering him milk instead of wine?
He hid his amusement behind a neutral expression, but the thought lingered. The boy was slight of frame, far too young to wear the weight of a city on his shoulders, and yet here he was alone, outside the gates of a dying stronghold, surrounded by men who would gut him without pause if ordered.
What in the world is Cretio thinking? he wondered. Sending this… boy… as an envoy? Did they really run out of men? Are the walls held by babies?
If the city meant to surrender, any old officer or even a frightened clerk would've sufficed
Alpheo's eyes narrowed slightly, studying him now with more intent.
