The mess hall was a battlefield fought with spoons instead of swords.
Soren hunched over his bowl, methodically shoveling the bland porridge into his mouth. Each bite tasted like wet paper, but he'd eaten worse. Much worse. The shard rested cold against his chest, a small weight that had become as familiar as breathing.
Around him, the hall buzzed with noise, boasts about training scores, complaints about blisters, the clatter of wooden spoons against wooden bowls.
Everyone seemed to be talking at once, their voices rising and falling in that peculiar rhythm that happened when people with too much energy were confined to benches.
He kept his eyes on his food, but his ears caught the whispers.
"—special training with Kaelor—"
"—Veyr's new pet—"
"—probably on his knees for the nobles—"
The last one came from two tables over, just loud enough to carry. Soren didn't look up. He'd learned long ago that reaction was what they wanted. Reaction was weakness.
