There was something in Enkilae's eyes that stood amiss for the king.
Alpheo had laid out a grand, glorious future for the man's people, a legacy restored, land of their own, and the crown's own iron backing, and yet the ex-slave acted as if he had just been tasked with a crushing, unbearable labor he had zero desire to undertake. Though perhaps "labor" was the wrong word for it; it seemed more as if stepping into his dead brother's shoes felt like a curse, a doom that would bring him nothing but ill.
