Blake looks strong, but he isn’t big and muscular like Callum or the other males sitting at this table. His accent also indicates he doesn’t originate from the Northlands.
“There’s been some debate over the matter,” says Callum, his voice low. “The last person who questioned it hasn’t been seen for a while.” He nods at the entrance to the hall. “Ah. There he is.”
Blake stands in the doorway.
Like earlier, he’s dressed in dark breeches rather than a kilt, and wears a black shirt that is perfectly fitted to his hard chest and torso. His hair is dark, and a couple of errant strands curl against his forehead.
He scans the Great Hall, a bored look on his face.
When his eyes lock onto mine, a wicked smile spreads across his face.
He heads toward us.
Many of the men in this Great Hall remi
