He stood. Stretched. Immediately regretted it.
Ashwing snorted in his sleep and rolled toward the wall, claws twitching like he was chasing something in his dreams.
'Hopefully not a child this time.'
Lindarion shuffled toward the small wash basin. Splash. Cold water. Regret. That about summed it up.
He dressed in silence. His coat was stiffer now, too many nights of wind and cave-walls and not enough laundering spells. He pulled the strap of his pack over one shoulder. It still bit into the same cursed spot.
Naturally.
He looked at Ashwing again.
The dragon cracked one eye.
"Get up."
Ashwing did not.
"Fine. I'm leaving without you."
Ashwing yawned and rolled further into the blankets like a burrito made of ego.
Lindarion walked to the door, opened it—
Ashwing was at his heels before he'd even stepped out.
"Of course."
The hall was quiet. A little too quiet. The kind of quiet that meant someone was either plotting breakfast or murder. Possibly both.
