Outside the dimly lit tent, Alpheo stood with arms behind his back, staring at the canvas like it had personally offended him.
From within came the wet, meaty sound of something chewing—no, crunching—followed by the unmistakable crack of bone giving way under teeth far too determined. It was not a pleasant sound, and it certainly wasn't the kind of welcome most would want after a war meeting.
He parted the flap with a single motion.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and animal fat. Hunched over a plate stripped bare of dignity was Marcus—second-highest among Alpheo's agents—teeth clamped around a glistening pig bone, now snapped clean through. His face was smeared with grease, his fingers slick and glistening like he'd gone to war with the meal and barely survived it. The gluttony of it all would've been obscene, if not for how pathetic he looked.
