Bennet took a deep breath of air, the musty scent of the old barn filling his lungs. He and Kieran sat facing each other, both on makeshift seats fashioned from overturned crates, the wooden floor creaking beneath them. The lantern's dim glow threw uneven light between them, illuminating the lines of age and exhaustion etched into their faces.
"Three years," Kieran said finally, voice cracking under the weight of it, "Nearly three years since I've seen another friendly face."
Bennet paused, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Three years?" he echoed quietly, the disbelief soft but sharp, "No real friends in Zavareth?"
"Tch. You tell me," Kieran replied with a dry edge as his gaze drifted to the floor, "I learned the rhythm of boots on the road. The way they pause before turning. I could tell which patrol it was by their laughter. You learn to breathe quieter than the wind. You think someone who has that much time to learn walking rhythms would have any friends?"
