Hohenfels

If he had to describe the lounge in a single word, Arne would call it ‘fluffy’.

‘What is it with Westerners and their foible for unreasonably soft armchairs?’ he thought idly while settling into the embrace of a particularly impressive specimen. On the opposite end of the low lounge table, Leonhardt shifted uncomfortably in his own chair, presumably a side effect of having one’s chest cut open.

“Why did you do this?” the heir of Westmark asked hesitantly after the uncomfortable silence had stretched on for a while. Confusion. Suppressed anger.

“I’m afraid you will have to be more specific. I did a lot of things today,” Arne replied neutrally.

“Your entrance. It’s… Do you realize what you have done?”

Arne shrugged. “Let me answer that with a return question: Do you realize what you have done?”

Leonhardt flinched as if he had taken a slap to the face. “I do.” Regret. Shame.

“No, I don’t think so,” Arne said darkly. “You forced me to make it abundantly clear that House Hohenfels is not to be trifled with. My… visit today serves that exact purpose.”

“I’d say you accomplished that, in addition to making my life very difficult,” his opponent grumbled. “Prince Ludwig will not take this well.”