She began to eat. The porridge was rich with honey and dried fruit, the bread still warm from the ovens. Despite her chaotic schedule of the past days, she was ravenous.
"There you are."
Delia slid onto the bench beside her. Her plate was nearly as full as Verity's. Apparently Kira's feeding campaign extended to all humans within reach.
"Here I am," Verity agreed. "Eating breakfast. At a normal hour. Like a functional person."
"I'm impressed." Delia's eyes were bright with poorly concealed amusement. "I half expected to find you'd tunneled directly from your quarters to the archives to avoid surface travel entirely."
"I considered it. The stone proved uncooperative."
Delia laughed, and the sound drew glances from nearby tables. She seemed not to notice, or perhaps not to care.
The meal passed in something approaching normalcy. Delia chatted about inconsequential things—the weather turning colder, a shipment of fabric that had arrived from the River Clan, Ralvar's ongoing campaign to teach her basic knife work despite her complete lack of aptitude. Verity listened, responded, even laughed once or twice.
And through it all, Verity felt him watching.
Not constantly. Not obviously. But every few minutes, that weight would settle against her awareness, and she would know, without looking, that Targesh's eyes had found her again.
She wondered whether he felt the same pull she did, the same impossible awareness of another person's presence in a crowded room. Whether his breakfast tasted like anything at all, or whether he was as distracted as she was.
Probably not. He was a warchief. He had decades of practice at maintaining composure. She was a scholar who had spent two days hiding in back corridors because she could not handle the knowledge that he could smell her desire.
They were not operating at the same level of competence here.
"You should try the smoked fish," a voice said from Verity's left.
She turned to find an orc she didn't recognize settling onto the bench across from her. He was middle-aged, broad-shouldered, with a friendly face and tusks that curved gently upward. He nodded toward the serving area.
"Kira's been curing it all winter. Best in the territory."
"Thank you," Verity said. "I'll consider it."
The orc's gaze traveled over her in a way that made her want to check whether she'd spilled porridge on herself.
"You're the archivist," he said.
"Yes. Verity Dunmore."
He grinned, revealing more tusk. "Durgan. I train with the warchief most mornings." His eyes crinkled. "I saw you watching."
Verity's face went tight, her ears ringing. Beside her, Delia made a sound that might have been a cough.
"I was observing martial customs—"
"Good view from that overlook," Durgan continued, as though she hadn't spoken. "Warriors train shirtless for a reason. No point pretending otherwise."
Verity opened her mouth, closed it, and reached for her cup of water.
"You're built well," Durgan added, in the same conversational tone. "Good abundance. Strong for bearing."
The water went down the wrong way. Verity coughed, eyes watering, while Delia pounded her back with rather more force than necessary.
"I'm sorry," Verity managed, when she could speak again. "I'm built—what?"
"Abundantly." Durgan gestured vaguely at her midsection, her hips, the general territory of her body. "Plenty to hold. Softness where it matters. The warchief has good taste."
"The warchief has not—we are not—there is no—"
