"Flio! Keep the hearth warm! Don't let the plants die!" Cherion's voice, thin and panicked, barely carried over the thunder of hundreds of marching men. Half-dangling out the carriage window, arm stretched so far he might actually take flight if the wind caught his cloak, he squinted at the fortress steps, spotting Flio looking unusually somber.
He was halfway out the window like a dramatic cartoon character when a hand yanked him back like a toddler refusing bedtime.
"My Lord, unless you intend to be the first casualty of this subjugation via a tragic fall from a moving carriage, I suggest you sit back," Reiner grunted. With a heave that spoke of years dealing with stubborn nobility, the butler hauled Cherion back into the velvet-lined interior.
Cherion hit the seat with a soft oomph, his hair a chaotic mess of static and frost. "I was just saying goodbye, Reiner. It's polite. Manners cost nothing, even in a blizzard."
