The Prince held his son's gaze for a long moment, his weathered, brown eyes searching the deep emerald ones the boy had inherited from his mother. The wind died down, leaving the ridge in a sudden, expectant stillness, broken only by the rhythmic shifting of the horses' weight.
A long sigh oozed out of Alpheo, sounding like a slow leak in a bellows.
"Half right," he muttered, the words like dry gravel. "You were half right. But the fact is, the primary goal was not simply to dislodge the war toward Kakunia. As fortunate as that outcome is, the damage we sustained here is a trifle compared to the war of nine years ago.
Back then, the south was in flames and the north was a hornet's nest of rebellion. That took years to stabilize. Now? We merely had to toss a few bags of gold to Lord Damaris to keep his loyalty. These lands are his, not mine. What true care have I if his peasants' thatch is scorched?"
