WISE MEN WONDER WHILE STRONG MEN DIE
Neron had visited the Hollowed Grounds and had felt the sun on his skin - the real, warm sun - for the first time in almost two years. He had met the ruler there at last and he had spent time in the Launceleyn Manor. He'd even learned a thing or two about a silly tradition, apparently from the Fae. That explained, perhaps, why he was sitting in his study (a lofty room with a beautiful view out over the Tundra), sitting with his feet propped up on his desk, staring at a bowl of water.
In his lap was the basket he had bartered for, the one Rexanna had given him stored safely away elsewhere. As the Halovian sun - cold and frosty and bright - beamed down into the study and bounced into the water bowl, Neron raised a hand. An exertion of will and the water froze solid; he followed this up by casting the basket lazily over it.
"There. Your pesky sun is mine," he drawled, shaking his head. Ridiculous, but amusing.
In his lap was the basket he had bartered for, the one Rexanna had given him stored safely away elsewhere. As the Halovian sun - cold and frosty and bright - beamed down into the study and bounced into the water bowl, Neron raised a hand. An exertion of will and the water froze solid; he followed this up by casting the basket lazily over it.
"There. Your pesky sun is mine," he drawled, shaking his head. Ridiculous, but amusing.
