Lucius sat atop a flat stone worn smooth by time, one leg lazily crossed over the other. The wind came in sharp from the sea, tugging at his dark cloak and whipping his curled blonde hair to the side. He didn't bother fixing it; there was something pleasant about letting the wind do as it pleased.
He grew near the sea, so feeling the smell of salt brought back a wave of nostalgia.
Below him, four of his men sat nearby, tearing into sausages wrapped in bread. One of them looked up, grease still clinging to his fingers.
"Sure you don't want one, sir?" the man asked, lifting the last bit of sausage.
Lucius shook his head without looking down. "No. I'm not hungry."
He heard the word again in his head—sir. It made him chuckle softly.
