Three Sentence Ficathon

Irrylath barely remembers his father the king; instead, his models of power are his two mothers: the one who bore him and the one who stole him.

Oriencor's example is a litany of things to shun -- do not be capricious, do not assume all places and people exist for your pleasure and convenience, do not lay the land to waste -- but he spent his year in Isternes planning war and clinging to the barest thread of hope that he might not drown in the black pit he dug for himself to please his mother, his lover, his goddess who locked his heart in lead and promised to drink his soul to take his pain away; he did not study how Syllva ruled, and she will not leave her city to guide him and Sabr as they take their first steps into the fragile dream of Avaric reborn.

"Stay and tell me how our mother would govern?" he asks his brothers as the warhost finish the feasting and funerals beside the mere, and begin the slow return to their several lands; and though he dares not depend on ties of blood, and made no effort to befriend this unlooked-for late-come family, perhaps there is more to life than despair and grim resignation, for the answer to his plea is, simply, yes.