Varianlir had been distant ever since he emerged from Borrock’s war room. His usual sharp, molten gaze was clouded like he wasn't there with me. His fingers absently traced the rim of his goblet without drinking. The feast roared around us—warriors laughing, plates clattering, Borrock’s booming voice regaling the hall with exaggerated tales of the hunt—but Varianlir sat like a statue carved from shadow.
I asked him twice what was wrong, but he insisted nothing had happened and Borrock just wanted to know more about Alix.
I didn't believe him one bit.
"You’re lying to me," I sent through our bond, my fingers tightening around my own cup.
His eyes flicked to mine, a flicker of guilt passing through them before he schooled his expression into something neutral. "Just tired, little wolf.
