Elayra snorted at his answer to the question she had intended to be rhetorical. “What a shame, you actually have to [i]work[/i] to get it,” she mocked, her voice thick with sarcasm. She tore off another bit of her jerky with her teeth as Ghent neared to retrieve his backpack. She scowled at his nickname for her. “Have fun lugging that around, [i]Featherhead,[/i]” She enunciated her own nickname for him slowly.
	Drust watched Ghent in silence, the boy’s reassurance doing nothing to wipe the doubt from his expression. The man crossed his arms over his chest as Ghent began pulling his food out of his backpack.
	Even Elayra could not help but watch, wondering what a ‘soda’ was. She leaned over, trying to get a better look beyond the flames between them. The packaging of his so-called provisions glistened as the firelight flickered over it, casting them in half shadows. The pictures on each one was stunning, the text on the like packaging too perfect, each exactly like the next.
	Soon, a feast of junk surrounded Ghent, Drust’s expression falling with each item the boy removed. He glanced to the backpack, its bulk now mostly deflated.
	Elayra’s brows furrowed. “Is that… [i]cake?[/i]” she asked, eyeing the smushed white and brown of the Zebra Cakes in their strange clear bag.
	It had been ages since she had seen cake. At least, any that looked edible. Even when compared to the smeared frosting and bits of crumbling yellow cake. 
	“It’s [i]all sweets,[/i]” Drust growled with a twitch. He bent his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sweets. [i]Candies.[/i]” His gaze turned to Ghent, boring into the boy. “[i]None of that[/i] will sustain you! Have you [i]no sense[/i] of survival? Of [i]basic needs?[/i]”
	[i]Have you not met him?[/i] Despite the thought, Elayra slowly rose to her knees, ever conscious of the weight of her saber shifting at her belt. Every muscle groaned in protest as she silently pleaded for the Knight to keep it under control. 
	“Drust,” she tried to soothe. She rested her left hand on the scabbard of her sword, still partially against the ground, resisting the urge to reach for the hilt with the other. “It’s fine.” She struggled to keep her own irritation from her voice at the news Ghent had brought nothing of real sustenance. “He can have—”
	Drust raised a hand toward her in gesture for her to be silent. Elayra instinctively flinched away and gripped her sword's handle, straining to get a better look at his eyes. The flickering of the fire made it difficult to judge the pulsing of the dark lines on his face from her angle.
	Drust took a deep, growling breath and closed his eyes. “Save your rations, girl.” With quick, heated movements, he rose to his knees, turned to his pack, and opened his eyes.
	Now facing her, Elayra breathed a tiny sigh of relief; though his irate expression could have curdled milk, the Curse had not won out. Yet.
	She cast Ghent a glare, resenting him for how easily he created a potential trigger. All he had had to do was [i]unpack.[/i]
	Drust reached one handed into the main pouch of his pack and withdrew a bundle much like the one housing Elayra’s jerky. He turned and tossed the bundle toward Ghent, the action more aggressive than necessary. It thunked down amidst Ghent’s pile of junk. 
	“I don’t need as much as you,” he growled, his words clipped. “Dispose of most of that,” he nodded scornfully to the pile of sweets. “It’s deadweight.”