Silas is comfortable in silence, Ellis’ anger like static crackling at his side, hairs prickling in warning up the backs of his arms to the roll of his sleeves. Held before the fire as it is, his stinking tunic has soaked in the warmth, uncomfortably hot in his hands.

While Ellis won’t look at him, the empty holes for lacing beneath the collar have become a source of some interest, something for him to pluck at.

“Would you have had me leave the Provost to his death in the mud?”