"I always thought crows resembled you, you know, Alph?" Egil had said once, shading his eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun. A flock of them circled lazily above the camp, their cries rasping and harsh, like laughter from the throats of the damned.
It had been just after the Bleeding Plains , their first true victory against a foreign foe.
The field was still raw with the scent of blood and trampled grass, but for that one afternoon, they had allowed themselves to feel immortal. They were young then, with hands unscarred by command and hearts still convinced that history bent to their will.
Alpheo remembered the moment vividly.
He had been sprawled in the grass beside Egil, leaning lazily on his left elbow, his head half turned toward the man who, even then, seemed carved from confidence itself.
"Are you calling me a herald of death?" he'd asked with mock indignation. "Or merely the bringer of bad luck? Should I take offense?"
