He sits back on his haunches and gives me a side glance once he’s done adding all the ingredients. “I told you I was, didn’t I? This soup will help keep you warm for the remainder of the day. Foxflick and Barbosi are essence-rich and will replenish your energy.” He actually talks to me like he’s not ready to take his sword to my throat. He sounds gloomier and more lost in his thoughts than anything else. My chest warms at the idea of him making me food just as much as it shifts with unease. He could poison me as easily as he could swing that sword. Or maybe he simply wanted to prove me wrong
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