"I think I know what the right choice is, at least for me," Hugo said, clutching his hands together against the chill in the late afternoon air. The garden's stone bench felt cold even through his dark brown breeches, and his breath misted in front of him with each word. Around them, bare branches reached toward the gray sky like skeletal fingers, and the mist that had clung to the valley all day was beginning to thicken as evening approached.
The air in the garden was crisp and cold, and it helped to clear his mind of the fog it had been in after witnessing Sir Tommin, or rather, Knot's punishment. Lady Ashlynn had been incredibly merciful to the blinded Templar who buried her alive all those months ago, and seeing it gave Hugo hope that she would be as generous with him as she'd been with the fallen Templar.
