Morning rolled in sharp and salt-heavy, the ocean wind cutting against the cliffs hard enough to rattle the barracks windows.
Lucen sat at the long mess table, boots propped casually on the bench opposite him, a plate of half-eaten bread and salted fish in front of him.
He wasn't eating so much as watching. The room was alive with hunters coming and going, loud voices mixing with the clatter of armor and weapons.
Most of them avoided his end of the table.
'Typical,' he thought, chewing idly. 'You beat their golden girl once and suddenly you're radioactive.'
The first one to break the silence was a broad man who looked like he'd been carved from the same stone as the island cliffs. His armor was thick plates strapped across his chest, runes etched into each one, and his shield was propped against the table like another person.
