What do we call a fearless man? His father’s voice. His father’s voice, offered from the certainty of childhood memories, for he did not think he would hear it again while he lived.
A hero? he had asked, shorn of certainty; it had been such an odd question.
In the shallows of dusk, in the time between the reign of the Lord of the Sun and the Lady, doubt and uncertainty could be voiced—but carefully. Even as a child, he had known that.
His father had shaken his head. He was not displeased with the answer; he had clearly expected it. But it was the wrong answer.
A corpse.
- MICHELLE WEST, Hunter's Redoutb
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