The steam percolated the room, rising from the surface of the warm water in curling tendrils of pearly whiteness. Mordred leaned back against the back wall of the bath his arms draped effortlessly over the rim on either side, his head tipped back so that his sharp chin pointed upwards at the ceiling. His eyes were closed, and tips of his thick black hair brushing against the porcelain paleness of his shoulders. Angmar was on the floor below, curled up as tightly as his bulk would allow, on his pile of treasure. Mordred could feel the dragon breathing, slower than his own, but he knew that his familiar was not sleeping. He was listening. The great claws scratched against the gold and bent the silver, but he was always alert. The perfect guard dog...with the capacity to topple buildings. The boy raised his head again, his fingers curling as they gripped the side of the bath as he drew his knees up towards his chest. Pushing himself into a standing position he stepped free of the water, and droplets ran over his skin to drip onto the tiled floor beneath his feet.
He reached for the blue towel that hung from the rail on the opposite wall and threw it over his shoulder. The tiles transitioned to rich carpet as he stepped through the doorway and Dred crossed the room to the great four poster bed at the space’s centre. He had left a book open upon the blankets, an English translation of Machiavelli’s The Prince. Mordred scanned the second paragraph of the first page as he took the damp out of his hair with the towel. A droplet of water ran free of the hair of his fringe, and before he could react, it had run down the sharp angle of his nose and dripped onto the yellowing pages. The boy moved away from the bed again and dried himself sufficiently in order to get dressed again. His trousers, cut from dark cloth and fitted neatly to his slender frame, were accompanied by an open-necked shirt of royal blue, the v-dip of the collar held together by silver chord. He fastened his leather belt with its dragon buckle in place around his waist before securing his bracers to his wrists and slipping his silver ring back onto the first finger of his left hand.
Satisfied, Dred collected the book from the bed and made his way out of his bed chamber and into the room beyond. Like the rest of the royal family, Mordred occupied a suite of rooms, consisting of a large study come sitting room, spacious sleeping quarters and a private bathroom. His desk stood against the wall to the left of the fireplace which occupied the space beside the door on the northern wall. Comfy seating occupied the opposing half. Placing the book down upon the table’s surface, Mordred slipped elegantly onto the chair and continued his reading. His blue eyes scanned back and forth across the words on the page at a surprising speed. By his right hand stood a stack of pages, an inventory of the items currently held in the armoury that he had been asked to compile by his brother, and other documents that belonged to the King. Mordred adjusted the grip of his right hand upon the edge of the pages and his little finger brushed against the paper of the documents.
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