It is perhaps the most defiant aspect of humanity that, even when the world prepares for the encroaching dark, the soul can still find a spark of blinding light.
At the head of a carriage that had to jump over a canyon, with horses half dead and the roads beneath being all muddy, its guests, even despite such circumstances, could not dampen the joy and light of a new life.
The heavy frame of Jarza, Legate of the First, emerged from the door. His hands that had seen so much blood shed first for nameless masters, and then for one he loved, now cradled a small, trembling bundle of linen against his massive chest. He held it with a terrifyingly gentle precision, his muscles locked in a desperate effort to be soft, as if he feared the mere strength of his pulse might extinguish so fragile a flame.
The light moaning of the boy rose for all to be heard.
"My boy..." he whispered, his voice a gravelly rumble that broke on the second word.
