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In Lothian City, the week-long Holy Festival of Light had overtaken the city.

At the center of the city, the fortified Holy Temple gleamed like a golden beacon with strings of lanterns and large bonfires lit along every tower and rampart, the temple turned itself into the ’Eternal Sun’ at the center of Lothian City.

The streets were filled with revelers, whether they were truly pious or indulging in more worldly pleasures, the entire city came alive to celebrate the Holy Lord of Light who watched over the people and protected them from the scourge of demons who infested the land.

Far removed from the revels, Marquis Bors Lothian looked down on the festivities from the window of his office, high in Lothian Manor. This year, in order to help bolster Owain’s presence among the common people, he’d chosen to step back from many of the festivities.

His eldest son’s relatively successful raid deep into the wilderness created an opportunity to celebrate the power of humanity and the Holy Lord of Light that Bors would be foolish not to capitalize on, no matter what he thought in private.

Behind closed doors, however, he wondered if the price of Owain’s victory had been worth it. A single village destroyed for the price of half his men. Worse, it had only been possible because of the assistance of an Inquisitor and several Templars along with members of the Temple Guard.

The Church, it seemed, was no longer content to allow the Lothians to fight for their own destiny on the frontier.

The coming Holy War might bring them enough knights and noblemen from across the sea to secure their future as a duchy on the backs of the aristocracy, but if it took the full might of the church to break into the western lands then Lothian March’s days of independence would quickly come to an end.

A soft knock at his door interrupted Bors’ brooding thoughts.

At this hour, with the city caught up in revelry, few would dare disturb him, especially with Owain handling so many of his formal obligations this year.

Fewer still would be admitted by his guards without alerting him to the identity of his guest and seeking his approval to admit them.

When he saw who stood in his doorway, however, Bors understood why the guards had let him pass without challenge. The white and gold vestments of a high-ranking priest carried their own authority, even if the man wearing them was his son.

"Loman," Bors said, turning away from the window to look at his younger son.

"I’m surprised you could spare a moment during the festivities to see an old man like me.

Has something come up? You know I dislike it when the Church chooses to abuse you as a go-between to negotiate with me," he said with a dark scowl forming between his greying brows.

"This is personal, Father," Loman said, his steps faltering slightly under his father’s gaze as he came to stand before the imposing desk carved from the trunk of one of the demon’s Ancient Oak trees.

"I came to talk to you about Owain. May I sit?

" he asked, gesturing to one of the large, high-backed chairs in his father’s stately office.

The stuffed heads of demons, captured weapons, and fading banners that covered the walls were all carefully placed to overawe visitors and impress upon them the might of the Lothian line in battling against the demon menace.

As a child, Loman had played in this office and the snarling heads or hollow-eyed skulls held no fear for him.

Now, however, as he stood before his father, he found himself strangely distant from all of it. The eyes of the stuffed heads seemed to follow him and the open mouths of the mounted skulls silently cried out ’outsider.’

"If it was personal, you shouldn’t have worn that," Bors snapped, gesturing at Loman’s white and gold robes. "If you wanted to come as a son to see his father, you should have put aside the vestments and come to me as a man," he said, dropping heavily into his own chair behind the desk.

"If you’d like, I can change," Loman said, continuing to stand. Owain, he imagined, would have flopped into the chair as soon as his father sat, but Loman held himself to a different standard. Since he’d asked his father’s permission, he wouldn’t sit until he gave it.

He just wished that his father could still see his son within the robes. Loman Lothian could relax in his father’s presence. Loman the Priest couldn’t enjoy that luxury.

"Don’t waste your time or mine," Bors said tersely. "Sit boy," he said after staring at his son for several breaths. "You don’t have to be so polite with me. Your mother isn’t here to scold you about propriety anymore."

"I know," Loman said. His eyes glanced to the side of his father’s desk where he found his mother’s embroidery chair, still sitting to the side as if waiting for her to return and take up her needlework while Bors handled the business of the march.

"But I think she was right that the little things matter more than people give them credit for.

A little extra courtesy never hurt anything. "

"But it does, Loman, it does, more than you know," the old marquis said.

Opening a desk drawer, he pulled out a small bottle of fortified wine along with two small cups.

"Since you’ve come to see your father, then drink with your old man," he said, filling each cup near to the brim with the dark, strong wine.

"Or do you need to abstain while you’re wearing. .. that?"

"It’s fine," Loman said, leaning forward to take a cup. "To Mother, may she find her eternal rest in the Heavenly Shores," he said, raising the cup to offer a toast.

"To Isla," Bors said, raising his own cup before taking a large gulp of wine. "So, out with it boy. You came to discuss your brother. What has he done that has you so unsettled that you’d come to see me in the dark of night during the middle of your Church’s holiest celebration?"

In the months since Inquisitor Diarmuid arrived, Bors and his son Loman had grown even further apart, particularly after Sir Tommin abandoned his service to Owain, taking a Templar’s oath and taking up some kind of position near Loman.

While there were limits to the information he could obtain about the activities occurring within the Temple at the heart of his city, common acolytes and servants were still worldly enough to understand the value of a silver penny or two.

From the reports the Marquis had received, Loman had been keeping close company with the Inquisitor ever since his arrival.

That could be explained as a simple duty. For the High Priest to assign someone as important as Loman as the temple’s liaison with the Inquisition likely made sense. The Inquisitor’s actions, however, left Bors feeling something else was going on with his son and the Inquisition.

This conversation between them was something that both men felt was long overdue. Now, perhaps they could finally get the answers that each of them so desperately wanted. Whether it was about Owain or the Inquisition, the time for avoiding each other to avoid the subject had come to an end.

"Father," Loman said after taking a deep drink of his own. "I don’t believe that Owain is fit to be your heir. I want to contend for his place as the successor to your throne."