The lanterns in Zareth's private chamber were burning low, casting unstable shadows across the stone walls. Zareth stood near the bed, unclad, the day's formal robes discarded in a heap on it. He pulled a plain night robe over his shoulders when the air shifted behind him. He moved with the ease of someone who owned the space and everything in it.
Draven appeared without warning, as he often did, his boots hitting the stone floor with a dull sound. Zareth wasn't startled. He finished tying the belt of his robe and turned.
Draven let out a long, audible sigh that was more of a performance than genuine fatigue. "How long do you intend to keep sending me on these little errands?" he asked, his voice dry.
"Oh, Draven—"
Draven cuts in. "I barely return before you have another task waiting."
Zareth gave a low chuckle and walked to the side of the bed. "Are you upset about the errands, or do you just prefer more interesting work?"
