Elayra’s grip tightened on her saber in the silence that followed, surprised at Ghent’s relative lack of physical reaction. Drust waited, his fingers curling and uncurling with impatience.
	Elayra glanced between the guys, the man towering over Ghent simply from kneeling. Even from across the fire, she could see the defiance twisting Ghent’s face, could practically hear his arguments against Drust’s demands. 
	The Knight’s eyes narrowed in warning at the unvoiced thoughts displaying on Ghent’s face. His neck gave a half-suppressed twitch.
	Elayra’s gaze bore hard into the boy, silently demanding he hold his tongue. Ghent was still a new variable, new stressor for Drust to acclimate to, and vice versa. Which was asking a lot under even the best of circumstances. Even the wrong tone could further aggravate the man’s Curse-amplified anger, be it truly at Ghent, himself, or both.
	To her relief—and shock—Ghent managed to calm himself down enough to try talking sense. Even if his words were strained and agitated.
	“To think I was worried you’d figure out how to [i]listen,[/i]” Drust growled, returning slowly to a sitting position. He moved stiffly, forcing himself into the less threatening cross-legged pose. “I said [i]most of,[/i] boy. Not [i]all.[/i] The value of keeping [i]some[/i] of that isn’t lost on me. And as I said. White Knights don’t need to eat as much. Take what you need.” He nodded to the bundle. “I’ll store the rest.” He jerked his head toward his pack.
	Slowly, Elayra mimicked Drust. She reluctantly unwrapped her hand from her saber. She adjusted its length behind her as she returned to her spot on the grass.
	“Toatunt jerky.” She nodded to the bundle waiting for Ghent to pull off its twine. She picked up the last remaining bit of the thicker chunk she had started on. In some areas, the speckles of orange rose a bit higher than the vivid red, creating small, wart-like humps. “You won’t need much. It’s more filling than it looks.”