Zyran leaned one elbow on the edge of the low stone table, his bread still untouched, eyes fixed on the man standing at Isabella's side as if the position was his by right. "So," he began, voice silk over steel, "the man with a knife collection gets the prime spot and the first bowl. Must be nice."
Kian didn't move, didn't blink, didn't even look at him. He just stood there, calm as a monolith, hands loose at his sides, shadow spilling over Isabella's shoulder.
Isabella's brows rose. "Or maybe," she said, voice sweet but sharp enough to cut hide, "the man who earns it gets it."
Zyran's mouth curved. "Earns it? What exactly are we counting as 'earning' these days? Standing there breathing? Looking vaguely threatening?"
Kian's eyes flicked toward him. Just for a heartbeat. It was nothing. And somehow that nothing was enough to feel like a gauntlet thrown.
