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If there was one thing Acaeus had learned of grief, it was that it wore many masks. While one hand offered the warm promise of memory, the other held a dagger to his spine, waiting to sever it the moment he accepted the first’s embrace.
Grief was two-faced. If he chased the first hand, he got the second. If he chased the second, he found it waiting. If he ignored both, one or the other caught up eventually, and the one there to greet him was rarely without its blade.
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He knew the headstone’s inscription from memory; he could still feel the worn handle of the chisel he had used to carve it. Acaeus whispered the words aloud, his lips uncooperative and numb from the biting wind.
“Tann eid khomar,” he read. “Walk with courage.”
He shook his head. He’d left his courage as an offering on this very grave one year prior, and hadn’t bothered to retrieve it. It was only cowardice that kept him alive now—cowardice, and Loren’s magic.
