Three days earlier, at Cutler Estate, Melchor sat across the table looking every inch the spoiled young master. He had a soft face, a thick neck buried beneath curls of gold, and a grin full of wine-stained arrogance that flashed his rotten gilded teeth.
Rich blue finery strained across his bloated frame, jeweled chains draped over him in gaudy layers, while every inch of his bearing spoke of indulgence, inherited coin, and a life never once disciplined by hardship.
Across from him sat Joveric the Brawn. His massive arms rested on the table while his head dipped low, not in respect, but in restraint. There were many things Joveric hated in this world, and near the top of that list was listening to useless drivel. He endured it now for one reason only. Jonas Cutler had once shown him real magnanimity, and Joveric meant to repay it.
Seeing Joveric remain silent, Melchor pressed on.
