The brooch that fastened Nibadur's cloak was the tower of his house, wrought in silver and gold, one resting upon each shoulder in true homage. For long, agonizing months, Zayneth had seen his prince clad only in grey mail, plate, greaves, and gorget, all bearing the family crest.Standing at the head of the army that should have given the start to a political unification of the South.
Where the Peasant Prince's armor was as black as sin, Nibadur's was usually a splendid, eye-drawn green bisected by twin stripes of polished grey. How a royal could march into the field draped in nothing but soot-blackened iron was beyond Zayneth's comprehension, a man of noble blood ought to ride into battle looking like a walking rainbow of power and privilege.
Today, however, the Prince of Habadia had shed all brightly colored pretenses. He wore a simple doublet of muted, greyish black, though it was not half as dark as his mood as he waited for Zayneth to deliver his report.
