The grand dining hall of the Avery estate was lit by two crystal chandeliers, their warm light falling over the table covered with roasted duck, glazed root vegetables, and decanters of aged crimson wine.
Cherion sat near the middle of the table, Derrick beside him on his left. Across from them sat Marchioness Avery, while Marquess Avery sat at the head of the table, his back straight as he cut himself a piece of meat.
"So," Marquess Avery began, setting his silver knife down with a soft clink against the plate. He wiped his lips with a linen napkin before turning his sharp gray eyes toward Cherion. "How is His Grace holding up these days, Lord Cherion? We hear so many conflicting reports in the council chambers."
Cherion didn't miss a beat. He swallowed his wine, setting his goblet down gently as he forced a quiet, familiar mask of weary concern onto his face.
