Julianna watched her husband, patiently. Her gaze was drawn back to his injuries at his not so subtle adjustment. She rolled her eyes upwards in thought, as graceful fingers laced together on the surface of her vintage desk. “Santiago Barlena,” she recited, neither of them bothered to sift through the files to find that particular candidate. Between Julianna’s photographic memory and Owen’s attention to detail, they didn’t need to. “Not native-born, two tours in the military, graduated in the top ten percent during his training…” trailing off, she wrinkled her nose as if she’d said something she didn’t like. That was not the case, he just wasn’t the candidate she had picked.
“Atlas does look good on paper,” she repeated his words back to him, not quite ready to give up on her own choice. “Specialist Weatherfare comes from a long line of loyal guardsman and soldiers. His own father included.” She mentioned this intentionally, to gauge her husband’s reaction. She didn’t think he was above damning Atlas for being Lanzo’s son. There was something else about Atlas that bothered Owen, but she’d yet to pinpoint what it was.
Ears shifted to muffled dog yips from behind her. One of the three animals in the corner was fussing in their sleep. Once again, furred appendages rotated to her husband. “Atlas is 400 years old. There’s not another candidate here that is half that.”
“Atlas does look good on paper,” she repeated his words back to him, not quite ready to give up on her own choice. “Specialist Weatherfare comes from a long line of loyal guardsman and soldiers. His own father included.” She mentioned this intentionally, to gauge her husband’s reaction. She didn’t think he was above damning Atlas for being Lanzo’s son. There was something else about Atlas that bothered Owen, but she’d yet to pinpoint what it was.
Ears shifted to muffled dog yips from behind her. One of the three animals in the corner was fussing in their sleep. Once again, furred appendages rotated to her husband. “Atlas is 400 years old. There’s not another candidate here that is half that.”
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
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