Dylan let out a frustrated groan, rubbing the back of his neck. The thought of heading into battle again so soon made his stomach churn — and not just because of the soldier's rations he'd just forced down. Always marching, always fighting, never a moment to breathe, to simply feel alive and… stronger. Much stronger.
The thought struck him suddenly, like a late revelation.
"Uh… Master," he began, the word scraping his throat as if he were swallowing gravel. He hated lowering himself like that — especially to a guy barely four years older than him. But Julius's knowledge was real, and Dylan needed it badly. "Did you… keep any?"
Julius, finishing the last buckle on his gear, raised a brow and smirked, clearly amused by his "disciple's" discomfort.
"Keep any what, dear disciple?" he asked, feigning ignorance with deliberate sweetness.
