"Both of them. In a single year. It's a curse, surely."
"Did you see the boy? He hasn't shed a single tear. Not one."
"He's barely fifteen. How is a child supposed to lead the North? We'll be at the mercy of the capital within the month."
"Oh, just look at him standing there... like a statue made of salt."
Zarius heard it all. He stood at the lip of the open family vault, his fingers locked around Marielle's hand with a strength that was bordering on desperate. He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at the minor lords who were already counting the grain stores in their heads, wondering if the "Young Duke" would be easy to manipulate.
He only looked at the two coffins.
They looked small from up here. Two boxes of dark oak and polished silver, containing the two people who had defined the boundaries of his world. And yet, as the priest's voice droned on in a language of old prayers and hollow promises, Zarius felt a sudden, sickening wave of pity wash over him.
