Rhys Blackwood sat alone near the edge of our section.
He occupied the end seat of his row with the defensive positioning of someone who expected attacks from all directions. His father's spear was propped against his chair. The weapon looked even more worn than usual in the grand setting.
Its leather-wrapped shaft was dark with age and use. The grips showed pale spots where countless hands had smoothed the material. The steel head was kept sharp despite its simplicity. Caught the light in ways that suggested recent maintenance.
A contrast against the ornate, enchanted weapons visible among the other houses.
Practical. Unglamorous. Effective.
Rhys himself appeared carved from stone. His face revealed nothing while his knuckles showed white where they gripped the spear's haft. The stress lines around his forest-green eyes spoke of sleepless nights and mounting pressure.
Tiny cracks in a facade he fought to maintain.
