Zhaneen had accepted the brittle letter that originated with Carnstein, a count of some power who served under Prince Vlad. Her only thought was to secure aid from Carnstein, to sell him on the possibilities of hiring her men as counter-agents against the folds of Chaos and its fiery brands, which were quite able to turn against him in the near future.
She forgive his glare and those eyes of his, like boiled eggs, staring at her from over the candlelight. The Broken Broadsword had supplied them the private dining room, the hen, and the potatoes–hashed. Carnstein ate nothing, but sipped a mysterious cup of red wine, which more often than not drizzled thickly down his chin. She forgave the count such rude manners, for what the hell, she was Chaos. But the hen didn’t go to waste. She found herself sucking at the marrow–long had it been since she…
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