The mouldering texts he perused showed how narrowly close he had brushed with disaster. A friend’s desperate courage had spared him, unscathed. If that depth of loyalty warmed his cold days, his icy resolve only hardened. As Prince Exalted, for the common trust, he would see such dark works cleansed from the face of Athera. Past solstice, as the flooding rains scoured the fields, and the north winds howled unabated, he took the rote steps that must guard his onward journey to Hanshire. He learned to frame lines of intent by clear thought and to bind his innate autonomy through affirmations. Fear gnawed him to doubt. The power of his naked word felt inadequate as he tired, and the vivid freight of his own memory closed in. Distorted faces sometimes appeared to gibber and leer from the shadows. He memorized Paravian cantrips to stave off the menacing nightmares that shredded his sleep in the chill hours past dark. On sobering terms, Lysaer saw where his pride had led him to blinded folly.
