"I would say that a week at most, and we shall receive word of the Fingers' final fall," Lord Landoff said in a meek, thin tone. His index and middle fingers twirled the end of his left mustache, curling and uncurling the hair like a nervous pig's tail.
"Is this the depth of trust an uncle has for his noble nephew?" Lord Corbray asked, his voice dripping with polished venom. He found it impossible to resist landing another jab at his rival.
Mavius internally sighed.
It was an unwelcome sight for any monarch to see his inner circle fragment into bickering factions while the enemy hammered at the gates, yet it was a ruler's oldest, unwritten rule: if your subordinates are busy sharpening their tongues against each other, they are too preoccupied to sharpen their steel against you.
Landoff desperately wanted to change the subject. The air in the room felt heavy with the weight of his own treachery; he had, after all, betrayed his own blood to save his skin.
