[Draven].
Breakfast was served in the same living area as the night before, though the atmosphere had shifted.
Morning light filtered in through the open windows, pale and clean, carrying the scent of dew and herbs from outside.
Low tables were set again. The food was simpler this time—warm porridge, flatbread, honeyed fruit, and herbal tea.
There was no plum wine. Thank the moons.
Dennis looked like death had brushed past him and decided he wasn't worth claiming.
He sat hunched, one elbow on the table, fingers pressed to his temple as if holding his skull together.
His eyes were bloodshot, his usual sharp grin nowhere to be found. Every clink of ceramic made him wince.
Jeffery, merciless as ever, leaned slightly toward him. "You look like the moon personally cursed you," he murmured.
Dennis groaned. "If she did, I would apologize."
