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Paul the pale let his dented gray helmet fall to the dirt, crushing its wilted gray feather.
The face revealed wasn’t anything to marvel at. Plain features, black hair, black eyes- maybe a slightly pointy chin, and, yes, maybe a little pale. But wholly unremarkable.
The old Oak of Oakmont, king on land- of rock- Looked Paul over, hands the size of melons resting on his knees.
“That was foul, sir. Ill done.”
The king’s voice was impossible. Deep and loud, and spoken as if whispered through the largest of war horns. And though it had the tone of the all-father- patriarchal warmth and compassion- there was a cruel streak in it. Something in his voice that smelt of rot.
Paul the Pale did not bow his head. He looked straight at the king with glassy black eyes.
“My apologies, your grace. No foul was intended. A freak shatter of the lance.”
On the far side of the field, Lord Patton sat in the dirt, cradling his son. His green tunic was spotted with red. Lady Masie Forester stood a few feet away, her face in her hands sobbing.
The King did not so much as glance over at the agony of his right hand, Lord Patton Forester. He kept his eyes fixed on Paul the Pale as he leaned back in his chair.
