The ink on the parchment was drying too slowly, or perhaps the air in the command tent had simply grown too stagnant to carry the moisture away. Zarius remained where he was, the warm light of the fire catching on his still figure. To anyone walking by, he seemed completely composed, the kind of Duke the North expected, though his thoughts were a tangled mess.
Precious.
Cherion had used that word. It was a ridiculous, soft, southern-flavored syllable that had no business existing in a war camp smelling of iron and wet fur. Yet, it sat there in the back of Zarius's throat like a swallowed stone. He tried to focus on the topographical map spread before him, the lines representing the treacherous Iron Crags, but the ink seemed to rearrange itself into the shape of a healer's frustrated scowl. It was distracting. Infuriating, really.
