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Summary
Castorice stood across the gravesite, her face pale but composed, framed by the same fire that had once driven him to madness and devotion in equal measure. Her eyes were fixed on the casket, but her hand rested lightly on the shoulder of a child.
A girl.
Small, maybe five or six, clutching a worn stuffed rabbit to her chest, her other hand tucked into Castorice’s gloved fingers. She had auburn-blonde curls escaping from a velvet ribbon, and when she turned to press into her mother’s side, Mydeimos felt the world tilt.
The child’s eyes were unmistakable; warm golden, almond-shaped, framed by reddish lashes.
His eyes.