The two figures sat on the hill as the stars slowly faded from the sky. The willow tree stood behind them, its branches swaying gently in the morning breeze. The graves lay before them, silent and still.
Roran had finished his story.
Leo sat motionless, his back braced against a jagged rock and his sword resting heavily across his knees. He did not speak. His gaze was fixed on the name carved into the weather-worn stone and the wildflowers that clung to its base.
Roran watched him for a moment, wondering what was going through the boy's head. Probably nothing good. Probably the same kind of dark thoughts that had been eating at Roran for years. He saw the way Leo's hands remained perfectly still—too still.
It was the posture of a man realizing he was standing in the presence of a ruin much larger than himself.
Leo had not expected this.
