"Oh, A fern leaf, Sol?" she asked, her voice dropping into a dry, flat murmur, as she looked at his lower body. "The savior of the Veynar, reduced to dressing like a swamp creature."
Sol grunted, crossing his arms. "Be glad I bothered tying anything on at all. If it was just me, you and the trees, I wouldn't have wasted the vine."
Behind them, Zephyra let out a dry, rattling cough, her ceremonial robes were torn at the hem, smeared with mud and dirt, but the High Shaman didn't seem to care. Her milky eyes were fixed on Veylara, taking in the profound, settled stillness of the Fifth Layer.
"Mock his modesty all you like, Warchief," Zephyra said, leaning lightly against her staff. "Had he not jumped into the teeth of that collapse, you wouldn't be standing here to critique his wardrobe. The decree of this land almost swallowed you whole."
Veylara's expression tightened, the fleeting amusement vanishing from her face like smoke in the wind.
