Chess, Not Checkers

He felt the warmth of Art behind him. The soft vibrance of youth, and the slurred, soft words of the tipsy boy. He looked up at the barracks ceiling, and a small smile flitted across his lips. For a boy with such promise, he could be a knucklehead sometimes. “You’ve already made me proud, Art. You're the best of us.” he said, knowing it to be true.

He couldn't even say it was because he was raised without all the horrors and hardships that had faced the adults in his life. He had seen the horror of his mothers failing mind, had seen her die in battle. He had let bloodlust lead him to almost kill the Warlord. So it was not instead of, it was despite it. Despite it, Art was the best of them.


"Sirius Fatalis"