e wishes that his heart might warm, to see them stand before him so - instead it only knocks against his ribs, and clenches like a fist.

When, oh when, might they gather in a time of peace? It ought to be a joyful morning, appointing positions long-empty, but he can read the trepidation on their faces, the tension like a livewire coiling among them all. Not only for the barren reminders of the gods’ wrath (for so Asterion has decided it must be - a punishment, a warning) but for yet another uncertainty on the horizon.

For the most part his words are accepted, but at the sound of @Israfel 's snort he cuts her a sharp look - he will suffer no derision of those he has chosen, not in so public a setting. But now is not the time for reprimands - not when they can all scent the blood on the wind.

Yet @Euryale herself is unbothered; when she speaks his name he recalls the dapple of moonlight on their skin, the scent of cypress and mangrove, the way she made him feel like both hunter and hind. His gaze holds hers and he nods, ignoring Cirrus’s apprehension of the vivid woman and her wolf. He looks away again when he opens discussion to those gathered, and his attention shifts to his Commander.

The king sees the emotions shift on @Marisol 's face, the downturn of her mouth, the crease of her brow. When she speaks he listens impassively, though he flicks his newly-tattered ear at the word war, bitter as gall in the salted air. For now he does not answer; he had bid his people speak and now he only attends.

It is a stranger who speaks next, and Asterion spares a brief glance for Cirrus - remind me to find him, later, he thinks, and the gull clacks her bright beak. When his gaze goes back to @Rhone his expression is grateful, and he dips his dark muzzle in a nod. “I would be grateful for it,” he says, but there is no time to linger before their newly-appointed Champion of Battle speaks.

His gaze settles on @Theodosia then, with pride and worry - oh, she still seems young to him, when so recently he saw her pale as a fallen petal in a hospital bed. But she is an different figure entirely in her armor and her paint with her fierce and flashing eyes, and she says nothing he can disagree with.

The discussion continues and still the king only listens, following the conversation with quiet intent, though each time war was mentioned his heart felt like the tolling of a bell. Only when @Israfel looks to him does he speak once more. “A usurper is not a war, and neither is a mutiny.” His voice is quiet, but sturdy as the stone of the cliffside. When the twins speak - familiar faces, though not ones he has spoken with - he nods in their direction, silent thanks. @Ard @Erd

And then he feels another gaze on him, burning like a brand. When he looks to its source he feels shaken, as though he has been half-asleep all this time - a unicorn, a stranger, with purpose in her eyes and a crooked horn on her brow. She is pieces like memories of others he knows, but he does not know her; why, then, does his blood moan like wind at the challenge in her gaze? @Thana

He is torn between gratefulness and regret when @Mephisto steps forward, drawing his gaze away from the creature so like and so unlike Calliope. He says nothing yet to the pegasus, but he marks her with a nod, a silent invitation.

It is to @Atreus his attention goes next, save for a moment where he looks on the silent, supportive @Fiona with mingled gratitude and concern. Of all of them, he worries for her the most - for though they have all lost much in the past year, he worries she has been bruised like a flower crushed by an uncaring heel. Yet still she stands, steady, and he wonders at the glance that passes between her and Atreus…ah, but now was not the time for such speculation.

“I think Atreus is right,” he says then, and regards the stallion once more. “And neither is it our part to bring this criminal to justice. We will, of course, support those who do-” and now his gaze moves back to Marisol, touching briefly on the twins and Theo. “The Halycon will have more work to do. But as you say, we do not have the numbers to march to the desert, or meet in full battle.” His voice is softer, then, and almost sorry; there was never enough rest, not for those of the air unit, not for any of them. And then his gaze sweeps across them all again, and when he speaks his voice is stronger, steadier, as if in rebuke to the warning drum-beat of his heart. “And the rest of us must be on our guard. Be wary, my friends, and wise. For those that can help heal our lands before winter comes again, you are welcome to all the resources of the court. We must be ready if any conflict reaches our borders - but we must lay the ground for peace to return, too.”

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