Sitting in front of a fire without anything on his feet. A wooden tankard steaming in his left hand.

Ithacles had his eyes at half-lids in a sort of post-hypothermic euphoria. His toes were probably still numb but all of his skin felt so comfortably lived in that he didn't notice. The castle was built strong and well but nothing could be done to defeat Faustben's brutal winters entirely. Hence the massive fire, and the Prince sitting so close to it.

They were in an enormous chamber. Big enough that barely a third of it was lit by the orange flames which flickered and lapped at their steel grate. The rest, the high ceiling, the long table behind them, the trophy animals and banners on the wall, was lost in soft shadows which deepened to a sleepy black. About midnight and the castle was silent around them. Just like the world outside, quiet and asleep, huddled into anything warm.

It hadn't been an easy trek down the mountain.

Ithacles lifted his left hand dreamily and took a mouthful of spiced cider. It was warm and tart and he held it in his mouth until it slid down on its own. He shifted his feet and rubbed them together. Pop, the fire cracked. A bloom of cinder shooting up the chimney.

"It wouldn't surprise me if they hanged him," he said quietly. "But a bit of a shame. He did hike all the way down here, after all."

Quietly, too. Probably scared of what was to come. And stunned at having watched his friends die so quickly.