Chapter Text
Macuil pushed himself back from the table, fingers pressed to his eyes as though it would take away the dry ache.
He’d been staring at maps and coordinating troops and supplies for the better part of two days, today would’ve marked the dawn of the third day doing just that. No one else had the expertise or skill to pull off what he could, so it fell to him to coordinate their armies. Not for lack of trying, his dear baby brother Cichol could stand in for a while if he himself was ever ill or too greatly injured, but even he wouldn’t be able to truly keep up. He appreciated the effort anyway.
The thought of Cichol made his heart twinge.
The man had just lost his wife barely a fortnight ago, the sight had been horrific. Macuil didn’t blame him for wanting to pull out of the war entirely, his brother had a little girl to care for, even if she wasn't so little anymore. Guilt was eating him alive at the relief that it wasn’t his own wife that had been killed.
He glanced at the map. Their troops were arranged in such a way it kept the worst of the fighting from moving too far west, where his family lived with the rest of his people. All he needed were the most recent reports, then he could theoretically take a small trip to see them. The end of the war was on the horizon, he could see it. The war wasn’t long by any means, but it was difficult.
Humans were a strange lot, letting a bandit of all things lead them against the Nabateans. A blatant murderer, no less! While Macuil had not been on the battlefield in some time, he’d heard the reports. A blade he was calling the Sword of the Creator. He remembered the roar Seiros had let out upon reading those words.
He took a deep breath, then took a moment to stretch out the soreness in his back before leaning over the map once more. One side was looking a little thin, so what if he...? He slid a marker over to cover the small gap in their defenses. One of Sothis’ children could easily take out one measly murderer who called himself a king. But just in case, he wanted those defenses strengthened.
He drew up a report about the change, then stood up to deliver it himself. Strategizing was never truly done, but perhaps he could spare a moment to visit before the day ended. It was closing in on sunset, and he wanted to surprise his wife. She’d been so busy with their newborn, she hadn’t had time to properly write to him in a while. The most he got were updates about the milestones he missed, like his half birthday. No one had been happy about that, save maybe the little one in question. He heard he’d napped through nearly the entire celebration.
He thought it a little silly, celebrating a half birthday when he wasn’t even a year old, but if it made his wife happy, then he was happy. He’d be there for the next one.
His son could lift his head now, though he often chose to nap instead. He chuckled at the thought, holding his robes out of the way as he descended the stone steps of the small base of operations he had established in the mountains. At Seiros’ request, he’d had them built over the desecrated tomb to prevent any more ideas about defiling their mother’s grave.
If only he could have Indech come up from the bottom of his lake for more than ten years, he could propose having a much more sprawling fortress built.
He pushed the thought away for another time, handing off the orders to some younger fellow he’d met maybe once before. He watched them scamper off, light green hair trailing out behind them as they raced away. Macuil took to wandering the outpost, a wind spell he barely had to think about to cast carrying him up to the ramparts. He walked the perimeter, squeezing past the guards stationed every so often along the way.
Just a quick walk, he promised himself. Just a quick walk, then you can maybe find Cichol and ask him to handle things for a minute.
Smoke rose upon the horizon, but he paid it little mind. The humans had been trying to smoke their troops out of the forest for days, and nothing worked. They hadn’t yet grasped just how powerful they were yet, it seemed.
He spotted Cichol in the courtyard below, sitting cross legged in the dirt. His daughter was with him, the young girl peeking over his shoulder at whatever book he had in his hands. A half crafted fishing pole had been abandoned nearby.
He took the nearest stairs down, winding and weaving his way around to the courtyard. Cethleann noticed him first, bouncing over to greet him happily, her hands pulling on his sleeve.
“Uncle! Come look at this book we found! Humans are fascinating storytellers!” she said, tugging him along. Macuil let a rare smile slip, but only for his favorite niece.
“Are they?” his question went unanswered, the girl resolutely pulling him until they were both sitting on the ground with Cichol. The man didn’t look exactly amused, but he looked better than he had in recent days. Cethleann seemed not to notice, instead pointing to the illustration in the book. It was of a half human, half fish creature. Singing to a sleeping man? On a beach? For some reason? Macuil didn’t understand humans, and after this war, he was beginning to not want to.
“It’s called a mere-maiden, I think! But the story is sweet!”
“Mermaid, Cethleann.” Cichol’s half hearted correction went unheard, even as he turned the page for his daughter to continue reading. The illustration on this one was of the creature watching the man from afar, hidden by rocks and ocean waves.
Macuil didn’t care to understand, but he feigned interest for the sake of his only niece. He wondered how she could be so cheerful after everything.
“Do you need to be rescued, Cichol?” he asked. “I was thinking of visiting home for a day or so. But someone needs to handle any reports in my absence.”
“I’d be happy to.” he said, then lowering his voice so his daughter, so entranced by the fairy tale, wouldn’t hear. “I need something to keep me busy after.... what happened. This book almost isn’t enough.”
Macuil nodded. His entire being felt as light as a feather. He’d have to pick up flowers on the way. Something blue, her favorite color. “I’ll be back sometime tomorrow then. Probably. I’ll tell the family you say hello.”
Cethleann’s bright eyes turned up at that. “Oh! You’re leaving? But the story is getting good! She’s going to see the sea witch!”
Macuil patted her head lightly, smiling. “Tell me when I get back then. Why don’t you summarize it for me on the way to the gates?”
The sweet girl perked up, her grin infectious. She went to tug on her father’s sleeve, trying to pull him up with her. “Come along, father! We must regale Uncle with the story of the mere-maiden!”
Cichol would always be weak to his daughter, Macuil noted, watching his brother shut the book and obediently follow the girl. Even if she hadn’t been the spitting image of her mother, he had the feeling his brother would do anything for the young woman. Still, despite it all, he worried for the man.
When he got back, he’d send for Seiros. And make her take the man out of the war. Somewhere far away where the cursed humans wouldn’t be able to find them.
Together, the three of them walked through the outpost. Cethleann between them, one hand in each of theirs, arms swinging happily as she talked on and on about the stories the humans made up. In a few years, they’d be able to do this with his own son. They hadn’t met him yet, he would have to change that. The last time he’d seen his son, the boy had been fast asleep and bundled up in blankets nearly as green as the tuft of hair he’d been born with.
He wondered how his son and niece would get along. His wife’s last letter mentioned their child throwing an absolute fit when she tried to get him to try fish, a real screaming and crying tantrum. Granted he’d calmed when given something else, but apparently the tantrum had been legendary. He kept that letter tucked into his pocket, to pull out on a particularly exhausting day to chuckle at.
Cethleann was still talking.
“And then! And then! She swam alllllll the way down to rescue him! Isn’t that so sweet? Usually all the stories have a princess being saved, but this time it was a prince! I hope I get to save a prince one day.”
“No, no, Cethleann. You’re a little too young for that. Maybe in the next thousand years you can think about it.” Cichol said. Cethleann’s response was to droop dramatically, all her weight held up by the two brothers.
“But father! That’s such a long time!”
“If it took your Uncle a thousand years after meeting your Auntie to propose to her, then you can wait a thousand years to think about rescuing a prince.”
“Hey, don’t drag me into this. That’s a fight you’re not going to win, Cichol.”
“What was that? Hmm, I don’t hear anything. Must’ve been the wind.”
“Cichol I swear to Mother I—”
“Father! Uncle! Look!”
Both brothers looked up simultaneously to where the girl was pointing. The gates had been flung open, a small, dying winged Nabatean crash landing into the dirt just before them. Macuil dropped his niece’s hand, racing to their side. He didn’t recognize them, but that didn’t matter. He knelt by their side, pushing the wing aside to look at the injury.
A gaping wound, pouring blood, that looked like someone had tried to tear out the poor person’s bones with their bare hands. He pressed a hand to the wound, dragging the healing light to the surface. It didn’t stop the bleeding, but they breathed a little easier.
“What happened?” he demanded.
The Nabatean wheezed, struggling to draw a breath. “Humans.... Humans in Zanado.”
Macuil, The Wind Caller and master of strategy and the magical arts, felt his blood go cold. But they continued after a moment, the flow of blood slowing as he pushed the spell deeper, seeking out the worst of the injury that he would handle healing. He was not the best healer, that role had been claimed by his niece. But he wasn’t letting a child handle something like this.
“They.... In the streets. So many dead. Everyone. Even.... Even the little ones. They were... they were tearing open the bodies. Ten of them. They wanted the ones who transformed. I— I think they were drinking the blood.”
Macuil was numb. Even as he pushed the spell farther, the ache in his palms didn’t reach him. The hardening of skin into scales, the glow starting to peek through the cracks in his flesh, the slow cracking and creaking of bones shifting into new positions did not register.
He didn’t consider that it might be a trick. That the slim possibility of one of their own turning traitor to drag him out and slaughter him too might be occurring. He considered none of it.
He pushed the spell as far as he could get it, then turned. Snarling, gripping the poor guard's armor so hard he heard the distinct screech and crack of metal breaking in his claws. Had they been a human, he would’ve killed them on the spot.
“Get them to a proper healer.”
He shoved them away, and let his form shift. He took to the sky, massive wings blotting out the dying rays of the sun. The wind howled, the updraft under his wings propelling him higher and higher into the pink tinted heavens.
Goddess, have mercy upon whoever stood in his way.
Zanado was in ruins.
Buildings burned as dying embers, smoke trailing upwards and choking the sky. No amount of wind he could conjure would clear the heavens of the smoke. Bodies lined the streets, the canyon soaked so deeply with blood that the very land itself would never recover.
Those that had transformed to fight the invaders, their bodies had been torn open. Guts spilling out onto the ground, shattered bones littering the dirt around them and a gaping hole where their heartstones would be. He counted nine in total, as he surveyed his home, gliding in slow circles.
The canyon was silent. Not a soul stirred, not a body twitched, not a single person darted from a hiding place. There had been nowhere to hide. Doors smashed in, windows shattered, the statues looking down from the great cathedral had been torn from their pedestals. Sunlight glinted off an axe left behind in some poor child’s back, crushing their tiny, fragile bones.
The Wind Caller veered left, the building lump in his throat threatening to drag him down amongst the slaughter. He searched, scanning the neighborhoods.
Why hadn’t he ever taken the time to study the land from above?
Aching wings flapping, he soared around and around, eyeing ruined landmarks he thought he recognized. The local church near the market his family frequented, the little bookstore he’d been told his son seemed to like the best out of all the places he’d been, and.... And—
His home.
His home, half buried under the weight of a fallen Nabatean. The long, coiling body lay on its back, head hanging by a thread with a lance buried in its horned skull. A mane of kelp green soaked with blood, a gaping hole where the heart should’ve been.
He dived, wings folded against his back. The wind slowed his descent only enough he didn’t crash into the earth, the very ground shaking with his despair.
It wasn’t enough that they had killed her. They had to desecrate her corpse.
The Wind Caller could smell no humans in the vicinity, the scent of iron was too overwhelming. But.... there was a tiny hint of an unfamiliar smell. No, it was familiar. One he wasn’t around often enough to know well because of the war.
It broke his heart to leave the body, turning to the ruins that would have been their son’s childhood home. Wings receding, horns and muzzle reforming to a more unfortunately human appearance, he picked his way over bloodstained rubble. He never thought he’d start to hate his human shape so much.
Robes swishing, Macuil pried the shattered door from its broken hinges, and climbed over a fallen beam. The kitchen had been completely crushed under his wife’s body, and the living room didn’t fare much better. The chair by what had once been a fireplace was broken into pieces, the bookshelves and the books on them scorched beyond recognition. A few of the children’s books had survived, splayed out on the floor. He didn’t collect them just yet.
He searched the bedroom, heart sinking further at the sight of a smashed crib and even more ruined furniture. The wardrobe had been split open, a gouge in the sturdy wood unidentifiable as made by weapon or claw.
His son was nowhere to be found.
Turning over every piece of furniture, every scrap of debris, every loose plank of wood thrown aside. There was no trace of his baby. His blood chilled at the thought of his son being stolen, or worse.
Where is he?! He can’t be under.... no. No, he couldn’t have been!
He froze, pointed ears perked and angled. He waited, and waited, and then—
There. Again, the tiniest, faintest noise. A hiccup, broken from crying too hard. He turned, running to the living room and shoving aside the broken remains of the chair. Nails scraping stone, he pried each one from the hearth, dragging it aside. One had been particularly loose, coming away easy.
The last dying rays of the sun barely illuminated the darkness within. A crawl space, no bigger than about a trunk that would be placed at the end of the bed. His wife’s idea, to store things away in case of emergency. He didn’t know why he didn’t think of it before.
He reached in, and carefully pulled out a basket. He gently removed the blanket that covered it, relief washing over him like an ocean wave so violent his head spun.
Coughing in the dust stirred up, the light making him wail even more, was his son. He seemed unharmed, and for that, Macuil would forever be grateful. He scooped him from the basket, cradling the tiny infant close, hushing him gently. His son only cried harder now that there was someone to hear it, tiny fists clinging to the front of his robes.
He rocked the baby, still kneeling on the floor, trying everything possible to soothe his screaming. He couldn’t bear to let go, not even for a moment, humming gently in the hopes it would calm the helpless child in his hands. Eventually, the cries died down, dissolving to little pained hiccups and sniffles. Every so often though, the baby in his hands still tried to cry, voice too wrecked to make much more than a cracking hiccupping sound.
Macuil knelt there for a long time, so long in fact, his son was teetering on the edge of sleep, hiccups interrupted by exhausted yawns. It brought him physical pain to wonder how long his little one had been crying, waiting for anyone to hear and find him.
He blinked away the dampness in his eyes, standing carefully. He cradled his baby in one arm as securely as he could, letting the soothing warmth of his weak healing spell seep through layers of fabric from every point of contact. Moving about the ruins of a place he could no longer call home, he collected every blanket he could salvage.
Every book still in readable condition, every article of baby clothing he could find that wasn’t caked in unknown substances, every toy that survived the destruction. All of it went to the makeshift sack. A letter upon a broken desk, unfinished and half drenched in now dry ink, went to his pocket. The last words she had ever written were now safely hidden in his robes.
His son shifted, burrowing a little more into his chest, and he nearly broke. The burning in his throat and the tears wetting his face hurt so badly.
He hadn’t spared a thought how he was going to get his son back to the outpost. He hesitated to use a warp, he didn’t know if the boy could even handle being magicked away that far of a distance. The strain would surely weaken him, if not outright kill a child so young. But it seemed like his only choice.
He didn’t know when his baby had last been fed, and walking back with nothing to feed him was out of the question. And flying? Macuil didn’t even consider how he’d safely carry him.
....What was he going to do without her?
The sound of flapping wings broke through his numb deliberation, and he held his baby closer. Teeth bared and already sharpening to razor points, a hiss nearly escaped him before he caught the familiar scent.
A wyvern.
He was at the door before it landed, the scaled beast huffing at him in greeting. Its rider, familiar and simultaneously the first and last person he wanted to see, Cichol slid from the saddle. His colossal spear slung across his back, its glow evident in the slowly darkening twilight. He ran, stopping barely half a step from Macuil.
He had no words. Neither of them did. For a long while, they simply stood in the ruined doorway to Macuil’s home, half crushed beneath the body of the woman who’d died protecting her son.
Then Cichol, barely able to tear his stare away from the gradually chilling corpse, looked down at the infant his brother carried. “Is that...?”
Macuil nodded, finishing the thought for him. The baby, the most precious thing he had left, slept soundly now. He remembered Cethleann had been similar when she was first born, and apparently the same for himself and his own brother. It ran in the family, apparently.
“My— her— our son.” he said, his voice betraying him by wavering. He swallowed down the despair that threatened to spill out. “If he survived, then there may be others. I.... I have to get him out of here.”
Cichol, forever the saint he believed his brother to be, nodded. Macuil couldn’t thank him enough, the man already squeezing past him and collecting the makeshift sack he had been numbly shuffling to gather. “I already have people searching for survivors. Take Stormfly, I’ll handle things here.”
He used his own sash to cinch it shut, everything safely enclosed within the large blanket used to hold it all. He secured it to the saddle while Macuil mounted the creature, a weak wind spell lifting him so he could swing a leg over and try not to fall off. For all his skills, Macuil was not cut out for being a rider of any sort.
Precious baby snuggled securely into his arm, his draping sleeves a makeshift cover to protect him from the winds, Cichol sent them on their way. Lurching into flight, the wyvern carried Macuil and his irreplaceable cargo high into the sky. He thought he was going to be sick, the smell of smoke and blood in combination with the uneven rise and fall of the flying beast did not bode well for his stomach.
Stormfly was more intelligent than he’d given it credit for, he found, when he discovered it needed no real direction to find the way back. They settled into a rhythm, wings spread and letting the air currents he had more instinct than thought to conjure up glide them across the vast distances. Only the occasional lurching flap of its wings were required to regain the height they lost, then it was back to smooth sailing.
His fingers rigidly locked around the horn of the saddle (why was it called that anyway? Macuil recalled his brother explaining once, but he retained none of the information), he stared off into the distance at nothing. If it weren’t for the infant tucked against him, he would’ve let himself fall off long ago. Nothing like free falling to really clear one’s mind, it required less effort than gliding.
His wife had hated free falling, she’d once mentioned that it made her uneasy. Then again, she hadn’t had any wings to fly with, she’d been built for swimming.
....He wondered if their son would prefer swimming, wings or no wings. Macuil was going to have to find someplace with a lake nearby, when the war was finally over. And it was going to end soon. Macuil would ensure that, even if it meant slaughtering every last human on this forsaken continent.
A delirious sort of broiling anger bubbled and burned deep within his chest. Even as they touched down after an eternity of flight, the darkness having really set in now, that delirious anger remained. He swung himself out of the saddle and slid down.
He ignored the ache deep in his skull, keeping the hopeful warmth of the one healing spell he knew well enough to cast without conscious thought seeping through the points of contact with the child he carried. The baby was awake now, tiny hands rubbing even tinier eyes as the little one yawned. Whatever aches, pains, or injuries he might’ve had were surely washed away by now, Macuil would rather die than let his son be in pain.
A tiny hand bapped his chin, a fistful of bright green hair clutched in a startlingly strong grip. His son yanked painfully on his hair, he hadn’t even noticed when it had gotten free from his ponytail.
“Linhardt, please.” he muttered, quickly dropping his protest when his son giggled sleepily. It seemed like neither of them would be sleeping that night. Another yank on his hair, another squealing laugh, and Macuil gave up. He just let it happen, struggling to untie the sack from the saddle one-handed. He nearly swore when he got it free and promptly dropped it on the dusty ground of the courtyard. He barely had time to back up or collect his belongings before his brother’s wyvern was catapulting itself into the sky again and sailing off back the way they had come.
He called forth yet another wind spell, floating the now dusty sack of belongings along with him as he walked. There was so much to do, it was exhausting to count it all. Feed the baby, speak with any survivors, draw up reports.
Seiros was going to lose her mind.
He hoped she slaughtered every last one of those sick and twisted monsters.
It was nearly dawn when Cichol returned.
Macuil had spent all night alternating between caring for his son, rearranging their forces.... placing a special marker he never hoped to use again over Zanado on the map. His son was content to be held all the while, idly chewing on his father’s sleeve or napping. Macuil’s sleeve was already soaked with spit by the time he’d even noticed it was in his son’s mouth, and he didn’t really have the heart to pry it out of his mouth.
He found trading it for the little carved wooden pegasus worked well, the boy promptly sticking it in his mouth the moment it was in his hands. Well, as long as he wasn’t crying anymore.
That was how Cichol found them, Macuil sitting and poring over the maps spread out on the desk with his son slowly gumming away at the toy.
He didn’t look up when his brother entered. “Any survivors?”
Cichol’s hesitation spoke volumes. “Very few. The attackers were thorough. Mostly women and children who’d hidden very well made it out. Less than a hundred total.”
Macuil’s son did not understand the oppressive silence, smacking the wooden toy against his father’s arm with a squeal.
“I’ll inform Seiros.” he said simply. He made no move to get up or get a fresh sheet of parchment, head resting in his hand.
“Brother.” Cichol’s voice was soft, softer than even when he spoke to his daughter. “I’m sorry.”
Macuil’s fingernails left crescent marks in his forehead, the burning in his throat made it hard to speak. “Don’t be. Slaughter the miniscule, defiling maggots who did this.”
“One by one, they will all fall.” his brother confirmed, dragging a spare chair around to sit with him. The baby was immediately entranced by someone he’d never seen before, his flailing legs kicking Macuil in uncoordinated excitement.
“I see he likes the pegasus. I’m glad.”
The toy in question was being smacked against his arm still, the wooden hooves digging into him painfully. Macuil managed a weak smile. “It’s much better than my sleeve, apparently.”
“Indeed.” Cichol chuckled, leaning close to say hello to his nephew. And was promptly nailed in the forehead by a drool covered horse head, the undignified noise he made drowned out by happy laughter.
Macuil ruffled the small amount of hair on his son’s head. “He likes hitting things, I guess. Want to hold him?”
“If you’re willing to hand him over.”
Macuil wordlessly transferred a very wiggly baby to his brother, an amused smile slipping out when his son immediately seized his brother’s hair and pulled. He ignored the pained squawk, getting up to actually retrieve fresh parchment to start on that report to Seiros.
For a long time, the only sounds in the room were the scratching of a quill, the happy squeals of his son, and the occasional “ow, please don’t,” from Cichol whenever that soggy wooden pegasus bonked him. Every so often, he lifted a finger to send a tiny whirlwind to lift the toy back into his son’s hands when it inevitably went flying.
At some point, Cethleann entered. She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes and wearing fresh robes. Her hands had been scrubbed, Macuil noted the faint trembling in her fingers. He set the quill down, he was done with the report anyway. He hadn’t even noticed the sun creeping in through the window to illuminate the room, it must’ve been nearly noon.
She wandered close, yawning and trying to fix the flyaways around her temples. “I’m back, father, Uncle. The infirmary is still full. But less now.”
“You should be resting, then.” Macuil said. His brother was a little preoccupied trying not to have his hair eaten by a tiny child to speak.
“I wanted to meet my little cousin!” she said, pouting even as she stood by Cichol’s shoulder to look at the boy. “One of the priests said she saw you come back with a baby, is this him? Oh, he’s adorable!”
“His name is Linhardt. And it’s very fitting, I think.” the man said, failing to gently pry his hair from tiny fists. “Do not get too close, unless you’d like to be hit by a tiny wooden horse.”
She laughed, reaching to poke the baby’s cheek gently. Her finger was immediately grabbed, a sleepy coo escaping the infant as he tried to promptly eat it. “He likes me!”
Macuil folded up the report, sealing the envelope it went into with wax and a touch of magic. If anyone who wasn’t the recipient tried to open it, they’d get a very nasty surprise indeed. “He’s probably hungry again by now. Cichol, if I could have him back, please.”
Reluctantly, the baby was once again transferred between the two brothers, Cethleann following along because the little one did not want to let go of her finger. But once he was back in his fathers arms he settled quickly, snuggling sleepily into his chest with the wooden toy. Macuil couldn’t help but wonder if his wife had been here, how much easier would the baby have slept? He’d never know.
The hand on his shoulder broke him from his train of thought. “Go rest. I can handle things for a bit.”
Macuil half rose from his chair. “Cichol—”
“Cethleann, go with him.” his brother was already nudging him out of the chair, steering both him and her to the door. “You both need rest. Macuil, I am not a child and can handle things for a while until you feel more balanced. You helped me, let me help you.”
Cichol didn’t take no for an answer, shutting the door behind them the moment they were in the hall. But not without giving his daughter a kiss on the forehead and a “sleep well,” of course. Macuil didn’t even have time to truly process being kicked out of his own office before his niece had taken him by the non soggy sleeve and was leading him along.
The kitchens were never truly quiet, only the head cook remained to watch over the day’s meals. But he enjoyed the ambiance regardless, the presence of the redhead gave him the motivation to compose himself somewhat.
He didn’t let Cethleann help prepare the bottle, he’d seen her last attempt at cooking. He wasn’t even sure what it had been supposed to be originally, just that it ended up a charred mess.
They sat together, his niece half dozing against his shoulder while he fed his son, who seemed to want to doze just as much as his cousin. They’d get along wonderfully when he’s a little older, Macuil was sure of that.
Linhardt was a slow eater, damp pegasus toy held loosely in his tiny hands. He hadn’t really cried since Macuil had found him amongst the slaughter, perhaps just a few hiccupping whines, and he was grateful for that. He didn’t think he could handle hearing his son crying that soon after everything.
He sat in silence, listening to the ambient sound of soup bubbling in a large pot and flames crackling quietly. The cook had gained an assistant somewhere in that time, the young boy relegated to slicing vegetables. He could hear the light thunk of the knife hitting the cutting board with no real rhythm.
A pair of bowls being set in front of him and his niece broke him out of his quiet reverie. The head cook was watching them with a faint hint of concern.
“Eat before you go, sirs.” she said quietly. “You and Sir Cichol have a habit of forgetting to eat for far too long. It’s worrying.”
She was a human, he knew that much. And a human was really the last creature he wanted to speak to, even if they were on his side. So he feigned politeness, giving a simple nod. The cook seemed satisfied with that, turning away to place a third bowl on a tray and send her assistant away with it.
....The soup was nice. He could begrudgingly admit that.