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Halo's first and second sons—Dales and Raphael—shared a quiet drink beneath the ashen sky.
The expedition had won a great victory, and the command had granted its soldiers a short respite. Drinking was allowed so long as one didn't get drunk. Thanks to that, the two middle-aged men finally had the chance to sit together and speak honestly over whiskey.
"Brother Dales," Raphael said.
It had been a very long time since he last called Dales by that word. His face was tinged with a faint flush, though any true drunkenness could easily be purged with mana. Both men had already downed a considerable amount.
"That wound from earlier—does your arm hold up?" he asked, jerking his chin toward Dales's right arm.
During the day's fierce battle, Dales had been bitten by a behemoth that resembled a wolf.
Dales shrugged and nodded, then replied, "No problem."
"At our age, aftereffects are the thing to watch for," Raphael said.
"What about that slap you took from the Marquis? Your cheek still stings?" Dales asked.
"Not at all," Raphael answered boldly, tossing back another gulp of liquor.
It had been ages since the two brothers last drank together like this. For so long, they had fought relentlessly over the position of the head of the house, piling up nothing but resentment toward each other.
But at some point… Something had shifted. They had begun to feel a strange kinship again,...
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