Luke

Luke set the single plate down on the table in his small house. The table was a dark, rich wood that matched the walls of the humble abode. He heard a small knock at the door. “Well who could that be?” he wondered. He walked over to the door and opened it. Standing on his rug was a small girl with brown hair and a blood-stained tunic, shivering in the wind. It was almost midnight.

“L-l-l-luke?” she shivered. “Yes, I am Luke. Come inside so your limbs don't fall off.” Luke said. Roxana nodded and walked inside, grateful that she'd finally found this “Luke” person her father had told her about.

“We need to get you cleaned up—you're covered in blood.” Luke noted. Roxana nodded and Luke gave her a new tunic top. It was an old one of his—it was almost twenty years old and he figured it would fit her. It fit her better than the last one had, at least.

“Good, now that you're somewhat better looking, who are you?”

“Roxana. I'm the daughter of Kyre Ge'Rama.” she stated bluntly.

“Then I'm your uncle.” Luke said. Roxana looked at him and he nodded. She seems barely composed. Something is wrong.

“Where's Kyre?” Luke asked her.

“He- he's... dead.” she whimpered. She started sobbing as Luke nodded solemnly.

“I thought that would be the case. He was an amazing strategist, and a better brother. I'll fix another plate of broth for you,” Luke said. Roxana nodded and Luke turned towards the stove. He was composed on the outside, but inside was a boiling brew of questions.

WHY!?