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Since time immemorial, the Rainlords had not been in the habit of massacring non-servant armies without leaving them the chance to retreat. They considered it dishonorable both as warriors and as servants. In fact, Rainlords who disregarded that unwritten rule were historically punished quite severely--even disowned as Rainlords, in certain extreme cases.

Their Arman ancestors had not been the same way, however.

That was one of the reasons why Rainlords had decided to distinguish themselves as such in the first place: to break away from the utter ruthlessness that the Armans had been known for while still trying to pay them homage for all that they accomplished.

Zeff sometimes wondered if that was a fruitless effort, though. Or a self-deceptive one, perhaps.

This barbarism that he felt in his heart. This anger. This desire to go forth and destroy his enemies. Maybe it was just in his blood. Maybe it always had been.

Maybe Parson Miles had been right about that much, at least.

Foolish thoughts.

He shook his head and took a deep breath before looking out across the vast horizon again.

He was torn in equal parts as he considered heading back out there to do battle. On one hand, it wasn’t his turn. He was supposed to be taking rest. But on the other, he wasn’t tired, and this bloodlust wasn’t calming down.

But on the other other hand, that probably wasn’t a good sign, was it?

He shouldn’t indulge this feeling, now.

Discipline. Self-control. He needed these more than ever. He knew he did.

Because his son had not been here. Francisco had not been among his captured kin.

He’d come so far, done so much, and tried so hard to temper his expectations for fear of disappointment--and none of it had mattered.

The disappointment had been crushing, just the same.

Gema. Francisco. Emiliana.

Three of his five children. All missing. And in fact, Francisco was now the one whose whereabouts he knew the least about. Where in the world were you, boy? What had you gotten thrown into?

He wanted to have confidence in him. The boy was certainly tough for his age, but in some ways, that was worrisome, too. Cisco had always struggled to make friends. Or... perhaps it was that Cisco had never cared to make friends.

Zeff wasn’t sure which. But either way, out there in the world, all on his own, Zeff might’ve felt more relief if Cisco were the friendlier sort. It was almost always better to make allies out of people who might otherwise be his enemies.

Zeff felt like he himself had taken far too long to learn that particular lesson. Hell, he still questioned whether he actually had or not.

Why did that boy have to take after him so much?

Damn it all.