Venting Frustrations

After the meeting, Owain's luxurious carriage felt more like a prison cell. The scented oils that the Blackwell servants had applied that morning had turned sickly sweet in the afternoon heat, mixing with the sour smell of three men's frustration and anger. Every bounce and rattle of the wheels over cobblestones made Hugo's teeth clench, each jolt feeling like another small humiliation after their defeat in the guild hall.

The leather beneath Owain's hands creaked as his fingers dug into the upholstery. His scowl deepened with each bump, transforming his handsome features into something dark and brooding. Across from him, Sir Rian's considerable bulk shifted restlessly, the knight's sword scraping against the wooden panels as he adjusted his position for the tenth time in as many minutes.