The extra logs that Owain had thrown on the fire had turned the dying embers into the hearth into a warm, lively fire that pushed back against the chill that seeped into the office of the Lothian Marquis. The sound of popping and crackling flames filled the air along with a faint smell of woodsmoke that pushed back against the scents of sickness and unwashed clothing that wrapped around Bors Lothian like a heavy winter blanket.
Outside the office, the sound of hail tapping at the glass windows had faded away to little more than occasional bursts and the fierce winter winds had grown quiet, as if it were afraid to overshadow the quiet words that tumbled from Bors' lips between sips of heady, intoxicating wine.
