The three men sat in silence in the corner of a dimly lit tavern. The table between them was scarred with years of use, the wood worn smooth by countless elbows and spilled drinks.
A single lantern hung above them, its flame guttering in the draft from the door, casting their faces in shifting planes of light and shadow. Outside, the snow had begun to fall again.
It was awkward. But not quite the usual awkwardness you might think. This time, it was the awkwardness of three foolish men who just grasped the extent of their foolishness.
"Apparently, she loves us—" that much. The two last words, Oathran didn't speak aloud.
Eastiel's attempt to hide his foolish smile failed completely. His lips twitched, then curved, then spread into a grin so wide and so bright that it seemed to light up the dim corner of the tavern.
