Boromin had retired to his quarters in the Army early in the evening, desperate on seeking at least a little relaxation before he had to plan further about the incursions from, and into, the countryside. Try as he might, though, the peace he so eagerly sought had eluded him, far more pressing matters - at least to him - playing on his mind. The Empress had died. He had not killed her.

Those two facts were the only things he knew for certain, though. This whole matter, far from having been resolved quickly and painlessly, on his part at least, had turned into an uncontrollable mess. Someone else had killed the Empress, and he was desperate to discover who. Whoever it was, they had covered their tracks well. Boromin flattered himself that he could have done the same, had he been the murderer. As it was, though, he had not yet finished the preparations he had set in motion for the Empress' death, and that meant, far from exonerating him in the whole fiasco, he had not had time to clean up after himself before investigations had begun.

He had done alright so far; he had never shied away from using lackies, and most of those whom he had been able to implicate in his stead, he had. There were still loose ends remaining to be tied, though, he knew, as well as he knew that, however time may have passed, the search for the former Empress' murderer had not nearly begun to cease. He was still in danger, and he knew it.

Lord Artain knew it too.