Erebos watched her very carefully, and said nothing, not a single solitary word, about the shadow pressed over her features, about the rippling effect of guilt coiled along her face. It was gone, swift and sudden, likely contorted back into her mind for a later moment, for a quiet instant in a cavern where she could finally fall apart. He did the same nowadays, hour after hour, occasion after occasion, discretely biding his time, instigating, incensing, unfurling a behemoth or Cheshire mask; allowed the grins and smiles to broaden, bestowed charisma, voiced concerns or uttered quiet commands, when all he wanted to do was splinter and fragment back into the soil. The boy had been lucky in some regard – he at least had a place to mourn, to grieve, to set aside snippets of twilight or dawn in his father’s silent presence, settled in front of the mountainside tomb with a handful of glories and shards of failure. What did Oizys have but a catacomb, a marsh, a dangerous, treacherous void where monsters wreaked havoc, where fallen Gods turned into demons, where trickery and deceit exploited the masses? Perhaps her mother’s figure had been taken elsewhere, and while curiosity drove the question along his mind, the General wouldn’t dare to give it life. That was her secret. He wouldn’t be the one to try and crack it.
 
Instead, the blue youth inclined his head in rapt intrigue as she voiced her intentions to be a warrior once she reached the corresponding age. He’d never actually known what he’d wanted to be until a pivotal, heart-stopping venture, when he’d gazed out on a friend’s corpse and shouted at a Colossus, when he’d been a little David shrieking at Goliath, when he’d been incapable of doing anything, too late, not enough. The prince wasn’t truly surprised at the notion – maybe it’d come from seeing her mother rush in to defend her at all costs, perhaps she’d like to wield a shield, a sword, press her blade into the flesh of the infidel who’d struck down the silver Amazon. He’d oblige her either way. Who was he to stop someone who wanted vengeance, just the same as he? His captivating smile lingered along his mouth then, one ear twisting towards Wessex’s offerings (nearly proposing to take the girl under her tutelage, newcomers and wards sticking together), careful, studious gaze resting solely on the girl. The soldier’s suggestions were thoughtful, enough to keep Oizys sharpened and keen while she grew (and avoided fighting entirely, he hoped, no sense of getting damaged and scorched before reaching maturity, ignoring Orsino’s pulsing laugh about levelheadedness), and he only intended to bestow a few more. “We frequently patrol the borders, especially with recent events.” He nodded towards Wessex, grin broad and bright, proud of her willingness, grateful for her inclinations. “You can watch our spars until you come of age as well. Once you’re old enough, you may participate and practice with the rest of us.” The glimmer of his stare rested back along the youth and her companion, wondering if the tasks would be enough for them, if they’d keep their minds focused, or if they’d wander down a path of no return.