The day had been long, and the shadows of the soul threatened to make it longer still. The sun remained a prisoner behind its grey blanket, refusing to witness the lightless choice the Prince was forced to make.
Alpheo's hand drifted to the notch in his breastplate where he kept the wooden rose. His gauntleted fingers, numbed by the cold and the vibration of the failed command he was making, traced the carved petals. There was no sweet fragrance to it, no softness to the touch; it was merely dead wood shaped by love.
Nothing organic was in there anymore.
And yet, as he grasped it, the token felt like the warmest thing he had ever held. To a stranger, it was a trinket, a simple sign of luck from a wife to her husband. To Alpheo, it was the key to a puzzle only he could solve.
Endure.
He could almost hear her voice rising over the screams of the dying.
