Alpheo sat back, the wood of his chair groaning under the sudden surrender of his posture. He turned his head away, staring into the flickering shadows of the corner to give his son the dignity of wiping his tears.
He drifted back through the years. Eleven years of marriage. Ten years of rule. It seemed only yesterday that he had turned his blade on his employer, seizing the city , not knowing what was to come next, all of his soldiers looking at him with wide eyes, asking: What now?
In all that time, he had guarded his past with more ferocity than his borders.
He looked at Basil, then thought of Jasmine and Rosalind. He saw the raw, open wound in his son's expression and realized that the fortress had become a prison.
He reached for the skull-cup, draining the last of the wine to find the cold courage to utter words he had sworn would die in his throat.
Perhaps he truly was too drunk...after all, he had decided on doing it.
