The room was small, but the argument filling it was anything but.
Ylva stood with her arms crossed, her eyes locked onto Thalion like a predator sizing up prey. Thalion sat on the edge of the cot, his pale hands gripping the wooden frame, his silver hair still matted but his posture marginally better than it had been hours ago.
Jason lay on the floor, using his rolled-up shirt as a pillow, watching the two of them bicker like an exhausted spectator at a tennis match.
"I am not sleeping on the floor," Thalion said, his voice firmer than Jason had heard it since they escaped. "I am the one who was tortured for centuries. I deserve the bed."
"You were carried most of the way here," Ylva shot back, her tail flicking. "I did the carrying. I deserve the bed."
"You have fur. You are literally built for the outdoors."
"And you have magic. Heal yourself a softer place to sleep."
Jason groaned. "Can we please just—"
"No," they both said in unison.
