Rhistel's jaw tightened. He had listened longer than he should have. The air between them thickened, a storm gathering between silence and tension.
"If it's land you want…" Rhistel finally spoke in a low and cold voice, "Then I will give you land. I will grant you a title far greater than these frostbitten villages. In exchange," he stepped forward, his eyes burning with sharp resolve "tell me where the witches are!"
Clondoire didn't move. He looked at Rhistel for a long moment, and then, he laughed. A slow, hollow sound that echoed across the barren garden like a funeral bell.
"Oh, your grace," he said mockingly. "How noble of you. You are ready to give up your title and land for something you will never reach in time."
Rhistel's nostrils flared. "Answer me."
