[Taralphiel]

The cold air left a comforting burn in Sorn’s throat, and made him shiver a little. He gave a light pat to his horse, which was enough to set him at a canter down further into the valley. The vast lands by Sorn’s estate were not all his, but few would mind or notice him riding through it. The stray farmer would not dare to challenge him. He’d earned a reputation that had such benefits.

Sorn studied the steely mountains, and they reflected in his vacant eyes. He passed his mind quickly over the past four days, and all his…‘precautions’. By now Osfrid would have made his way well into the Hall of the new Eorl, and be returning with all the information he needed. This would be another key to keeping the fiery young Lady from making a movement while in his keep.

Sorn then began to dwell over his current list of minions, servants, and housekeepers. It was at this point that all knew the stakes of his ambitious endeavour, and the consequences should it fail. Sorn knew he could do only little to keep loyalty, and so he would have to simply hope to barricade the rising streams. Some, like Gurth, had simple loyalty and little way to make coin or advantage from betraying him. Others like Scyld...

Sorn fidgeted, thumbing the leather rein as he remembered the expression on Scyld’s face whilst he stood in the study. He needed to be watched, carefully. Many in his troupe would not think twice to act on Sorn’s orders. Scyld obeyed, but he also thought on his orders. Sorn knew that was a great sign of trouble.

The sun began to rise over the peaks as Sorn rode towards his home. The windows flickered with warm candlelight from the previous night, and Sorn could see the kitchens were active with signs of the first meal being prepared. Being out for almost over a two days had left Sorn’s stomach restless, and his kitchen hand knew of his like to wander away for days without notice.

As his horse leisurely slowed into the property, a startled stable-hand peeked from behind a barrel. Sorn gave him an easy, even look as he nervously took the reins. With another pat to his horse, he dismounts and makes a long stride to the kitchen.

Entering the hall, Sorn could feel the immediate wafting warmth, and smell of roasting meat. However, as his steps lead him past the entrance to the cell, he sensed something less than welcoming. Voices.

Sorn stopped, his lips curling into an ugly grin. Was Scyld talking to the prisoner? That would be an unwise move. Sorn stepped closer to the door, his keen hearing drowning out the other bustle.

Carefully he detected someone’s voice...