Serris leaned back in his chair, the worn wood creaking under his weight. The tankard in his hand was warm now, the ale inside gone flat, but he didn't reach for another. The celebration swelled around him—laughter, boasting, the clatter of dice on scarred tabletops but he had stopped participating an hour ago.
He watched it all with the distant patience of a man who had learned that joy was something that happened to other people.
A figure dropped into the seat across from him. Vedran, his second, his face flushed with drink but his eyes still sharp. He had been a soldier long enough to know when to drink and when to watch, and he was watching now.
"Any word from Derek?" Serris's voice was low, meant for Vedran alone. "The capital."
Vedran wiped a hand across his mouth, leaning closer. His voice dropped to match.
