Zarius didn't say a word as he hauled Cherion through the camp, his grip firm and purposeful. He didn't look back, and for some reason, Cherion didn't try to pull away. So he let himself be escorted, dragged, really, straight into their tent, where the lighting was low and the situation somehow felt even more questionable.
Once inside, the sudden absence of the wind felt like a physical weight. The tent was dim, lit only by the low, orange hum of a dying brazier. Zarius finally came to a halt by the edge of the bed, but he didn't let go. Not yet. They stood there in a silence so thick it felt like it was pressing the oxygen out of the room.
"Sit," Zarius commanded, his voice a low vibration.
Cherion sat. He had no choice, really, unless he wanted to remain standing like a confused coat rack. Zarius sank down beside him, the mattress groaning under his weight.
