The carriage slowed, the rhythmic clatter of iron on stone softening into a dull rumble as the wheels transitioned onto the meticulously swept volcanic flagstones of the Royal District.
Varo remained silent ; after Merelao's words the older man had retreated into a hollow, haunted stillness. He did not look at his ward, and the younger man, for his part, seemed satisfied with the heavy silence, his gaze fixed once more on the world outside, though his lapis eyes were now as devoid of warmth as a frozen lake.
The Yarzat Royal Palace did not loom with the overbearing arrogance of the Spire of Habadia or the tall teeth of Vinnacovi, nor did it possess the sprawling, decadent decay people so unceremoniously pursued.
Merelao always believed true beauty to go further than the fairness of the body, it was something higher, the answer that a person's soul would give to the world.
