Atop the steed that had carried him faithfully through nine years of war and wandering, the whole place sat beneath his scrutiny.
The horse, white as the first snowfall of the winter that was yet to come, and armored in dust and sweat, breathed slow and steady beneath him, and Alpheo let his gaze wander across the vast face of the Great Rock, where the first ring of stone now lay wounded and half-claimed.
No longer was there the flurry of movement that had been constant since his arrival beneath those walls; the battlements where figures had scurried like ants over spilled honey stood strangely barren, emptied of purpose, as if a great breath had blown life from them.
He brought him little pride the knowledge that he had been that wind.
