Three days later, in a hidden valley within the mountains of Crete.
Occhanos sat before the fire, tore a piece of bloody flesh from the undercooked leg of a wild boar, and chewed vigorously.
The coarse meat and the strong, unseasoned scent of blood made him frown involuntarily, cursing his clueless grandfather in his mind.
If that old fool had been sensible, he would have bowed his head early, admitted his mistake, abdicated sooner, and passed the throne to him.
Then, the beast calamity on Crete Island would naturally resolve itself, and he wouldn't have to hide in these godforsaken mountains, subsisting on such rough food, but rather lie in the palace, enjoying the delicate delicacies served in gold and silver goblets and the meticulous care of beauties.
