With a plop and a long, weary sigh, the old lord and Jasmine's last tie to anything resembling family , sank into the velvet cushions of the sitting room's worn sofa.
A bundle of papers lay scattered on the low table before him.
He reached silently for the cup of wine resting nearby, lifting it with slow familiarity as if it was a long companion of that day. The deep red liquid tilted, swirled, and slipped down his throat, warm and bitter like the month they had just lived through.
Alpheo said nothing. He sat across from him, hands clasped, waiting.
He let the old man settle and do it at his own time. Shahab had earned his silence, just as much as any general on the battlefield.
They had all thought they would rest. After four months of grueling campaign, it had seemed a reasonable hope. But reality, sharp as a dagger, reminded them that war never truly ended with the last clash of steel.
There was always an order to shape from the ruins of conquest.
