The past can only carry the heavy weight given to it by the living.
For Alpheo, it was a ghost that walked a pace behind his shoulder, never speaking, yet never leaving, always lingering whenever his throughts drifted off.
The winter wind howled across the plain, biting and sharp, matching the sudden cold shivers that rippled through the King's frame from front to back. It was deep winter, yet the sun hung high in a crisp blue sky, piercing the frost to brighten the cold green grass with its golden rays, bringing a fleeting warmth to the land, at least, where the imposing shadows of the rising walls of Yarzat did not reach.
