The twelve-year-old's icy, arrogant facade cracked, shattering into a million pieces of terror.
Cassian was staring up at a man who looked as if he was easily over seven feet tall, covered in horrific battle scars, casually breaking solid oak, and glaring at him with an eye that promised instant, brutal dismemberment.
The boy's pale skin turned the color of chalk. His breath caught in his throat. The confidence trained into him by the priests evaporated in the face of Northern barbarism.
"N-No," Cassian squeaked, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, pre-pubescent pitch. He instinctively took a stumbling step backward, holding his hands up in surrender. "No problem! I was merely... directing the young miss! Offering assistance!"
