Lion Head Mesa Thárros

The noise of the mesa had returned to normal, even with the Roman gone – hunting for the white witch and her few followers. From what he had overheard of the returned warriors, it had not been much of a fight at all. Such frivolous chatter of war for it to have fizzled into nothing. Arsenio wondered if the white wolf – the former leader of the Saints – was ashamed of herself for running from the chaos she had caused. It brought him a modicum of amusement as he watched the Fellahin chatter and mull about the mesa caverns.

Arsenio had started to feel the efforts of watching over the queen night and day. He had not slept a full night for himself, had not found a moment of peace to enjoy a filling meal. The only moments he had stolen away for himself had been interrupted by the falling leaf, Tamar. They were interruptions that the Greek would gladly accept, any chance he could.

The man searched for food so that he could leave it outside the queen’s bedchamber – a breakfast in the later hours of morning light.