"Rise, Zarius."
The voice was Lario Valtrane's. It didn't carry the warmth of a father or even the irritation of a tired man. It was a gavel striking a block.
Zarius sat up instantly. There was no grogginess, no childhood whim of wanting five more minutes under the furs. His body, even at ten years old, was a machine of trained reflexes. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the frost-rimed stone of the floor. A shock of ice traveled up his spine, but his expression remained as flat as the horizon. He didn't shiver. Shivering was a confession of weakness, and in this house, confessions were met with "corrections."
He dressed in the dim light, stiff leather, heavy wool, the weight of the Valtrane crest pinning his cloak. His hands were already numb, the blood retreating to his core as if trying to hide from the man standing in the doorway.
