For once, the eternal boredom etched into Teshar's weathered face had softened into the quiet satisfaction of a man who finally had more raw material than his hearths could smelt.
Leaning against a stack of freshly planed ironwood beams near the yard, Sol stood casually with an unbothered grin, peeling the skin from a sweet mountain pear like fruit with the tip of a small bone paring knife.
He wore a dark, sleeveless leather jerkin over loose linen trousers, the sapphire hilt of the Dreadwing blade resting against his hip in its newly polished sheath.
While the entire camp ran around with ledgers, ropes, and timber, the Supreme Spear was living proof of the arrangement he'd struck with the Chief: he was the unmovable boulder at the center of the yard, soaking in the sun, utterly devoid of chores.
Sol spent his days doing exactly what he had promised: taking it easy, eating the best cuts of the roasted meat, and watching the world bend to Veylara's will.
