CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
What a waste of my time, Sartes thought as he sat below the willow tree in their yard, peeling potatoes for his mother, the wind pulling at his burgundy tunic in a steady stream. Sartes was too young to fight in the rebellion, Rexus had told him, and had sent him back home to sit and wait to mature, to feel useless, to ponder on Nesos’s death, to sit and think of how Ceres was trapped within the walls of the palace, being abused, used, and tortured.
He tossed the potato into the pot and started to peel another one.
How was it Rexus expected him to sit here and do nothing, to suffer the consequences of the war, but to not help in any way? He wasn’t too young, he knew, but the revolutionaries didn’t see that. Just because he was small of build didn’t mean he didn’t have
