The Difference

As the celebrations roared on, Alaric noticed a small figure slipping away from the lively crowds. 

Benedict, shoulders slumped, was making his way down the stone path toward the stables.

The young boy's sadness was clear—the way his hands were stuffed into his coat, his red hair slightly disheveled from the wind, his green eyes cast downward in deep thought.

Alaric sighed. He knew that kind of look.

Without hesitation, he stood up from his seat and followed after him.

Inside the stable, the scent of fresh hay, leather, and horses filled the air. The soft snorts and shuffling of hooves echoed in the dim space.

Benedict stood near one of the empty stalls, running a hand along the wooden post. He didn't turn around, but Alaric knew he'd heard him enter.

"You planning to sulk here all day?" Alaric's deep voice broke the quiet.

Benedict stiffened, then scowled. "I'm not sulking."