Alpheo straightened his aching back, the movement producing a faint, dry pop in his spine. He took a moment to let his gaze wander from the stage, stealing a brief, sideways glance at his guest.
Merelao seemed entirely consumed by the narrative. There was no posture of forced politeness or the arched brow of aristocratic boredom; he sat with his straight back slightly curved forward, elbows resting on his thighs, his eyes fixed on the wooden boards with an eager intensity. Alpheo felt a flicker of quiet pride, after all the spectacle was his.
Leaving the thought to drift, Alpheo turned his attention back to the unfolding myth.
"The Prince made use of Luna's gift," the narrator's voice boomed, as the stage shifted to a cold, stone-walled painted chamber. "As soon as any soul crossed his threshold, the Prince knew. His nose, scented the truth before a word was spoken. To the virtuous, he offered his hearth; to the wicked, he barred the door."
