The clearing felt different after the final run.
The urgency was gone. The pace had slowed. For once, there was no yelling, no drills, no targets to drop. Just food, warmth, and the fading scent of pine smoke curling into the late afternoon sky.
They ate in clusters, sprawled across tree stumps, smooth boulders, and blankets that Lyra had laid out earlier in the day. It wasn't a grand feast by noble standards—no silver cutlery, no roasted boar or honey-glazed duck—but it was the best meal they'd had since arriving.
Warm bread, still soft in the middle. Dried berries soaked in sweet wine. Smoked fish wrapped in fresh-picked leaves. And mugs of spiced cider passed hand to hand, always refilled before anyone could ask.
Sark groaned as he leaned back on a log. "This is what the gods must eat in their halls."
"You say that about every meal," Lio replied, tearing another chunk of bread with his teeth.
"Because it's always true. I have a refined palate."
