His glance holds, caught on hard lines and bleached knuckles while his own hands fall idle, the tunic slack between them. It’s a quiet night outside of their conversation, crickets, wind, the tongue and snap of the fire.

He’s road-weary, scruffed bony around the tear in his ear, crow’s feet weathered in sharp. There are still chips of blood dark under his nails.

“Is it for you to decide when I am?”