Gennor sighed, wiping his already-soaked sleeve over his sweaty forehead. As he pulled weeds, his muscles aching, he thought of what he'd seen the day before.
A three year old Rhenan, the same age as his daughter, had been made a contestant in the Warmatches after her mother ran away from an abusive master. Gennor knew better than to believe 'strict' and 'abusive' were truly the same, where Rhenans were concerned. Being a wealthy Kilanaean, he owned several slaves himself, but he sought to treat them decently. He shook his head, disgusted. No, he didn't — he had not tortured them physically, it was true, but he'd had no qualms when separating parents and children, when marrying disobedient slaves to more cooperative ones against their will.
No, he was very much a part of the problem.
It was this thought that had carried him out to the garden to give his youngest slave a day off. It was this that had pushed him onto his knees to weed, dirtying his impeccably clean hands to clean his dirty heart.
The memory of the young girl would not prick his heart further, but everything that reaches the heart plants its seed where it lands, and someday, its tree bears fruit.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
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