Hours had passed since Alistair finally succumbed to exhaustion, his breathing slow and steady. I sat beside Alaric on a small settee that servants had brought in, replacing my uncomfortable cot. My head rested on his shoulder as we both kept vigil.
"You should sleep," Alaric murmured, his hand absently stroking my hair.
"So should you," I countered, stifling a yawn.
"I've sent men to make arrangements for Thomas," he said softly, his voice tight with contained grief. "The funeral will be held in three days. He has a sister in the northern province who must be notified."
My heart ached for the loyal coachman who had lost his life so senselessly. "He served you well."
"For fifteen years," Alaric confirmed, his jaw clenching. "He was more than just a coachman."
A knock at the door interrupted us. Reed entered, his expression grave.
"Your Grace, the men have been fed and housed as ordered. Is there anything else you require?"
"No. Get some rest yourself," Alaric instructed.
