Sir Mor Penberthy had barely done more than doze in the long hours since he sailed away from the Isle of the Drowned, leaving Count Rhys behind to face… To face whatever had lit a blue flame in the ancient lighthouse carved into the isle's central spire.
There were dozens of matters that needed his lord's attention now that he was home, and Sir Mor had spent much of his evening organizing those matters into clear priorities once he was ready to resume his duties. It was important work, and on most nights, Mor would have retired to his bedchambers with a deep sense of satisfaction after completing his work.
Last night, however, was different.
Mor wasn't a fool. If he were, he'd never have been granted his current station as Count Rhys's Steward. He knew that his lord kept secrets that stretched back to the days before the Kingdom of Gaal unified the lands of the new world, and he knew that Lord Rhys wasn't alone in keeping such secrets.
