Duke Flint slammed his fist into the table, and a goblet went skidding across the map toward his waiting officers. Morian caught its rim before the wine reached the southern boundary, leaving the royal grant visible beside the brazier's light.
Uriel stood in the alcove by the door with her hands buried in her sleeves, saying nothing at all.
"Three centuries!" Duke Flint roared, grinding his fist into the spilled wine beside the survey.
"He spits on three centuries of our blood just so the guild rabble can cheer for a discarded bastard!"
Morian set the goblet down beside the map, well out of reach of the hand still pressed to its edge.
"The insult is deliberate, Father," he said evenly, "and the boundary deserves your attention before the applause does."
Their father shoved to his feet, and his chair crashed backward into the officer waiting behind its corner.
"He'll plant no flag there!"
