Moria sat in what used to be Silas's throne room, running his metal fingers over a petrified child's hand like it was a wine glass. Alfred stood behind him, somehow managing to look disapproving of the entire mine despite his face never changing.
Luthra walked in, still favoring his left side where the ribs weren't quite healed. Rebecca stayed close, practically vibrating with nervous energy. Khorvash leaned against the doorframe.
"You're late," Moria said, not looking up from the stone hand.
"I was unconscious."
"For three days, I heard. Very inconvenient." He set the hand down with a soft click. "You were supposed to deliver Silas's head to my estate. The deal was two weeks. It's been..." He made a show of checking his pocket watch. "Two weeks and three days."
"That doesn't sound correct and fighting him took—"
"I don't care what it took." Moria's eye fixed on him. "A deal is a deal. You're late."
