The maid then came out after she prepared the hot water, and Jolthar thanked her and got in.
Jolthar walked into the bathroom, shed his trousers and got into the tub.
The hot water cascaded over his muscled frame, washing away the night's exertions. As steam clouded the air, Jolthar's mind drifted toward the northern mountains—toward his purpose.
His grandmother's words rang in his head about the elves and the mountains.
When he emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist, he found maids had delivered the milk he'd requested.
He drank deeply, aware of Cleora's eyes following his movements as he dressed in his travelling garments—leather reinforced, designed for both protection and the freedom of movement his swordsmanship demanded.
"Leaving already?" Cleora asked, propping herself against the pillows.
"Yes," Jolthar confirmed, fastening the final buckle on his sword belt.
"How long?"
"Days," he replied, approaching the bed. "Perhaps a week."
