Thalien swirled the wine in his cup with the lazy elegance of a man who'd never known real fear—or at least had learned to dance with it. He lifted it toward Cretio in an unreturned toast, holding the gesture long enough that the absence of reply became its own kind of silence.
For all his youth and foolishness, everyone who knew Thalien agreed on one thing: the boy moved through life with the sort of unflappable levity that made you wonder whether his soul had been stitched from the wind itself.
Even now, surrounded by stone walls that groaned under the weight of a siege, his grin seemed to defy the very idea of despair.
But his drinking companion did not share in that rebellion. Cretio sat motionless, arms crossed, eyes locked onto the younger man with a stare that had worn down steel and silenced braver voices. His cup remained untouched.
