T
Literature
The Thorncrown Prince Anselm was very tall for twelve, and slenderer than she had expected: more a mountain racehorse than a destrier. Child or not, he carried himself with a certain grace that would’ve marked him as highborn even apart from his garments. But it was his face that most struck Lisolia, softly formed and pale even to the point of delicacy. Not at all like the armsmen she’d been around her whole life.
As he turned to her she caught something in those hazel eyes of his–she did not exactly know what–that made her want to look longer. Was it tenderness, or pity, or even a trace of sorrow? It vanished at once, as he looked away.
“Lisolia, this fine lad’s name is Anselm,” Father said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “He’s going to live with us now, you see, along with his sister, who you'll meet later.”
“For good, I hope? We could use more like him.”
“At least for a long while,” said the boy; and his voice was high and clear and strong. “And a pleasant time it will be I have no doubt, if all
