He walked through cold, weeping stone corridors beneath chandeliers of tarnished gold, haunted by the fragile ghosts of a life that never was.
In the hollow silence of Epietoli, he could almost picture it: a boy in the courtyard, small fingers wrapped around a blunt practice sword, guided by the patient, calloused hands of a father. He imagined the firm grip on his shoulder, the proud nod from the saddle, the fierce embrace after a hard day in the tilt yard, the sacred, tender bond between a sire and his flesh.
And it was taken from him, stolen all of it. All that could have been.All the joy. All the warmth.
Those who remembered his father spoke of him in hushed, reverent whispers. A creature of duty.
A man of pristine honor.
The dutiful second son who knelt willingly beneath his elder brother's mantle, bowing to the ancient laws of the Five without a whisper of treason.
And for that immaculate, selfless loyalty, his reward had been cold iron in the dark.
