The air inside the tent was heavy, not just with smells, but with enough tension to make Cherion's shoulders twitch like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Zarius sat in the center, a silent, brooding mountain of a man who looked like he'd rather be wrestling a frost-giant than sitting through this meal. To his left, Cherion held his spoon with a grip so tight his knuckles were white as bone. To his right?
Marielle leaned in so close to Zarius that their shoulders bumped, her violet eyes practically drilling holes into his face like she was trying to read his brain.
"You're thin, Brother," she declared. She didn't wait for a response before she began piling the fattiest cuts of meat onto his plate. "What have they been doing to you in this gods-forsaken camp? Eating snow? I've seen healthier complexions on a three-day-old corpse."
