The Lord, nearing fifty, personally came out to greet, draped in a cloak warmed by the stove.
His face red from the cold, he grabbed Sorel's forearm: "It is an honor for my entire domain that the Prince's messenger has arrived."
Speaking this, he took a Red Tide glass cup from the hands of an attendant and offered it with both hands, his expression solemn—not for any grand reason, but because this item had become a formal commodity in his family's warehouse, ready to be traded for tangible profits with surrounding territories.
"In past years, I couldn't even gift my own family anything decent," the Lord whispered, as if boasting about his foresight, "It's different now. These glass cups sell exceptionally well; I've heard southern noblewomen clamor for them. Please accept it, Your Highness, the value is substantial."
