33. Forgive me, Father.

And the fact that Barak didn't knock brought a questioning expression to his father's face. He could tell something was occupying the mind of his firstborn. And not just tonight. He had been noticing something off about the young man for some days now.

He placed the quill pen into the ink and crossed his hands over his chest, resting his back on his seat with his eyes on Barak.

"What could possibly have my little warrior so stressed?" He asked and a soft chuckle left Barak's lips as he sat himself down before his father.

"Father, I am as tall as a house. That is not little." He noted.

"Ah, that is true. But I am still taller which still makes you little." Bashan countered and Barak let out a dry chuckle.

Silently, blankly, he stared at the white sheets of papers and scrolls that were laid on the table. And Bashan patiently waited, waited for him to speak.

He let out a long breath and finally spoke up, "Father," He called.