"So," Eastiel put down his glass of whiskey, the cheap crystal thudding softly on the scarred wooden counter. The amber liquid within caught the dim, smoky light of the tavern. "Do you want me to warn you or not?"
Arkai, seated beside him, narrowed his obsidian eyes. He took a slow, deliberate sip from his own glass. The air around them was thick with the smell of ale, sweat, and roasted meat. Quite a far cry from their usual environments.
Their hoods were drawn low, shadows concealing the distinctive points of their ears, the bulk of their hidden tails a constant, careful weight. This tavern, however busy, was a place for merchants, mercenaries, and men who asked no questions.
The perfect place for two kings to wind down.
"If you're asking me whether you should or not," Arkai finally replied, his voice a low rumble meant only for Eastiel's ears, "I don't think you should."
