Two men sat across from one another, between them stood an oak table, both men gazed at one another, carrying their own ghosts and burdened by their own faults.
In Enkilae, Alpheo saw a shadow so similar to Egil, and yet so desperately different. It seemed the two brothers shared only their shared visage and their shock of unruly blonde hair. Egil had never truly been broken by the pens, that was an undeniable fact. He was the strongest of them, the wild spark that kept hope flickering in the pitch-black dark of their bondage.
Jarza, Clio, and Asag had all eventually confessed to the King that they had followed his uprising mostly to bring about a swift end to their misery. Alpheo could understand that well enough; a steel blade to the gut was far more merciful than a agonizing death that took twenty years to arrive and forty years worth of pain in it.
