The Great Hearth/fireplace of the Sovereign Wing was roaring with enough high-heat forge coal to keep a whole pride of tigers content, sending a deep, amber glow dancing across the vaulted stone ceiling.
Outside, the mid-winter blizzard was violently rattling the glass panes, but inside, the air was heavy with the rich, comforting scents of roasted pine nuts, drying sweet rushes, and the faint, bitter tang of raw paint pigments.
"Lower your shoulder just a little, Fenric," I directed, squinting through one eye as I held a charcoal stick up against the massive canvas. "You're completely blocking Thalor's silks."
"If the fish-prince wants to be seen, he can stand on a cushion," Fenric grumbled, though his massive, golden-striped tail gave a compliant, cooperative sweep across the fur rugs as he shifted his weight.
He was sitting cross-legged on a mountain of black bear pelts, his broad bare shoulders gleaming in the firelight.
