He was opening up well enough, Alpheo realized. The moment Enkilae's mouth had opened to spill those bitter, biting words about Egil, the man seemed to have entirely forgotten the suffocating terror he had felt when he thought he was merely speaking to a King.
The only king in the South.
Seems scorn is the sovereign cure for all fear, Alpheo thought.
Yet the King deeply misliked the words he was hearing. Just as he was rapidly starting to mislike the man sitting across from him. This shepherd was not like Egil. Not one bloody bit.
Where Egil had been bold to the point of madness, Enkilae cowered. Where Egil had been loud, fierce, and crackling with dark humor, his brother was a quiet barely present man, that would just speak barely above a whisper if not pushed. They were akin to one another only in the way a vibrant, golden butterfly was to a dark, creeping roach.
