The Brandy

Their quarters were smallish, but they were home. Rosalyn had put her flair and sensibilities into the décor, which was reflected in the ebony furniture and carved marble tabletops. Argen had contributed the old crimson and silver tapestry that had hung in his childhood home. His father’s sword hung on the wall. The hearth was empty, the smell of old ash in the air. He sipped brandy as he read reports. Their quarters felt still and empty; Rosalyn was out on patrol with some younglings, and would not return for another month. Argen’s students were poor company compared to Ros.