Like his father and sister, Ezekiel was ruled by blood that knew battle and knew fury at its core. He had seen that proven by Talitha’s anger and her terrible red eyes, so much like their mother, that showed her world internal. She had shown him murder and hell-fire and she had meant for blood. If she loved him less, she would have come here. Talitha, for whatever else she was, she was capable of murder. This Ezekiel knew in his heart.
Haven seemed good-natured enough to allow the idle threat to pass, which reassured Ezekiel he would not need to flee the Court this day. Self preservation outweighed the idea of standing and holding his own; he would not die because he was so proud as to refuse to run. Elijah had just about closed the distance between himself and the horse when Haven dropped, and the puppy fell onto his fat haunches and stared up at the familiar man.
Ezekiel smiled a little at the mention of scars, his own displayed across his face like war-paint. “I used to have more,” he admitted. “But I’ve found that even old wounds can heal. Those not too deep, at least.” Corvus had nearly taken his eye. He had been lucky.
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