"Good." He let the smile show a second, then put it away like a knife put back into a boot. "Eat. Then roles."
Breakfast was practical kindness repeated until it looked like a plan: porridge, salty and hot; a wedge of boar saved from last night re-warmed and crisped at the edges; cups of tea that smelled like the grass just after rain. The ants lined pebbles along the fire's windward side like little shields. Sigrid declared, mouth full, "You can build armies on porridge if you don't pretend it's anything else."
