Maybe, he had always known something was wrong.
But he hadn’t discovered what it was until the day he spat hatred out his bedroom window. He was nineteen. He was more than a man and his clean hands painted and wrote. His trained voice spoke and sang. His gloved hands handled a horse well and his clothes were unstained in his own blood, which set him apart from his brothers.
Earlier that day, the answer to Torsten’s evaded question had been revealed. A bird had arrived at the watchtower. They used carrier pigeons and falcons at the castle, but the bird that perched on the battlements was neither. This bird was yellow with a long tail like a flag, black stripes on its face, and black blots on the tips of its wings.
