Owain stooped briefly to retrieve the knife, ignoring Jocelynn's obvious distress as he moved to the table against the wall and retrieved a small iron pot with a fitted lid that looked frightfully familiar to Jocelynn. The metal of the pot was blackened with age and use, and when Owain lifted the cover, steam rose from within, carrying with it the smell of thin porridge and something meaty and intensely unsavory.
Jocelynn's stomach turned the instant the scent reached her nose. She knew that smell. Knew the sight of the grey, unidentifiable chunks of meat floating in the watery oats. She'd been served that exact meal on her first morning in the dungeons after spending a night shivering and wet from the bucket of water Percivus had dumped on her the night before. And, as much as she hated herself for it later, she had forced herself to eat it despite not knowing what the meat was, willing to trade away her rings and jewelry for anything that would fill her empty stomach.
