Once the butchering was complete, the floating knives of stone clattered harmlessly to the ground, leaving the air heavy with the iron tang of blood. Isolde wiped nothing—because she hadn't touched a thing—and stretched languidly like she'd just finished a stroll, not dismantled a three-hundred-pound boar.
Oliver stared at the neatly separated piles of meat, organs, and bones. "…You could've at least left me something to do."
"I did." With a flick of her finger, a thick strip of boar meat floated toward him. "You're going to cook it."
He caught it clumsily, scowling. "And what about you showing off your cooking skills?"
"Oh, I will," she replied smoothly, lounging against a log with her arms crossed. A smirk tugged at her lips. "But first, I want to watch you make a fool of yourself. If you don't try, you'll never learn. Surviving means knowing how to cook your own food. And besides—" her crimson eyes gleamed in the firelight, "—watching you struggle is far more entertaining."
