He hadn’t seen the mark before. As Aoren lowered to his height however, it was impossible to miss. An intricate, blue-ish pattern of lines. No brand he had ever seen had the gentle, ebbing glow behind it like the motive on Aoren’s face. Almost his curiosity uncoiled, but he stayed his tongue and allowed Aoren to speak.
The strong-man said many words and pronounced them with enough weight for Timothy to know he was serious. Aoren was by far the most serious grown-up he’d met. Perhaps Jed could compete, though the Kenash Dynast had been grumpier. It was upsetting, no, annoying to hear Aoren talk with such certainty. He didn’t like being lectured, especially since the one lecturing him was a self-absorbed, giant muscle-man with stupid, childish ideas.
“You’re wrong,” he said as Aoren fetched his shirt. “You’re big and strong and you’re wrong. Your honor means nothing when you’re dead.”
Though the fire in his belly had been rekindled, he let Aoren pass. He wanted to say something. Throw a verbal dagger in the gruff man’s back. But it was too late. The hulking shadow soon disappeared and he was left alone, yet again.