Greatwater Lake Krýo

How had he not seen her approach? 

Antigone’s cold features turned from the mountain to look upon the woman. She wore a cloak of stone, pulled from the mountain range itself. Life had been blown through her and had given the mountain a voice - a woman’s voice. 

The effort to be polite had not been lost on him. There were few who would ask. Many just assumed that they could take a place near him, invading him, violating him with proximity. The red hooded man had grown in his contempt. It had shaped him far more than his father’s joyous laughing, his mother’s sweet voice. The image of Meadow and that man still burned deep in his belly. 

Sure. 

Curt, cold even in his young voice. The dark blue in his gaze was even icier. 

My name is not signore.