All eyes turned upon the couple as they rose from their seats, the previous clatter of silverware dying instantly into a heavy, expectant hush. Alpheo had always known Ratto to be a man of courage; by every testimony of the lad had held fast against a wall of lances at the Ford and had proven his mettle in every bloody skirmish he ever set foot in. Even Egil, who praised men about as often as it rained in the deep sands, always had exceptionally kind words for the young man's steel.
And yet, of the two standing there, the one visibly sweating and fidgeting like a trapped rabbit was the newly minted legate.
Perhaps it ought to have been Lysandra donning the ringmail and Ratto wearing the silk skirt tonight, Alpheo thought, a small, highly amused smile playing at the corner of his lips. Though, of course, he knew he was doing a great disservice to the boy.
