[Mess Hall - Morning]
The mess hall smelled of porridge and woodsmoke.
Kael sat across from Kogan at the end of the long bench. Their right arms were up, elbows planted on the table, palms locked together.
No one acted as referee. Kogan simply gripped and pushed.
The table creaked once under the force and went still.
Around them, spoons had stopped scraping. Conversation had died in patches, spreading outward from their end of the hall the way silence does when there is something worth watching. Men leaned in, pulled by instinct.
Silas sat two seats down with his chin in his hand.
Kogan's forearm was corded with tension, tendons standing out like rope pulled tight. His grip was iron. His base was solid. He had ranked among the strongest of the centurions before he was thrown into the vanguard camp, and he knew exactly how to use that strength.
Kael's arm held.
