Father

What a horrible way to go. He was around eight or seven, right? A child. A boy. That thing, what did Eryth call it? A Highborn? He'd struck again. First Earth, then the bandit camp, and now Tomos. 

Bile crept up my throat as the image of his little body plagued my mind. I could still remember his small frame carrying a jug of water around his size, struggling to walk the day we first met. And the look of pure achievement when we arrived back at the forge. I sighed. Meeting Eryth's golden eyes, that seemed as cold as a winter's day. 

He didn't feel anything at all. Not really, aside from the hollow layer of sorrow one would have for a stranger's departure. And I could relate.