Rikard leans into the chair in his room, watching the fire from the candlelight dance its shadows against the wall. A deck of cards, a few books, and a mask he found among the rubble of the orcs are displayed in front of him. He reaches down and scratches the nape of the black hound at his feet, the hound looking up with blazing, red eyes at its master.
Rikard takes the child’s mask in his hand, running his fingers over its surface. He speaks plainly to no one, his voice devoid of its usual charm and gaity.
“Give us time, Lord. Then we will show them something.”
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