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Summary
The dagger dug a sharp crevice in the wood of the table. Scraping back and forth before spinning in a neat circle. The pale hand that gripped the handle clenched slim fingers every few Seconds, the only tell of the omega's irritation. Harsh eyes bore down from the slightly raised días. The Scrutiny was not foreign nor unexpected by the other occupants of the hall as they supped.
‘Aerion.’ Maekar’s voice cut through the echo of clinking cutlery, scraping against porcelain plates and the crackle of the roaring fire on the hearth.
Aerion did not look up from his plate. Spearing a cooling spud with the tip of his dagger, bringing it to his lips.
‘You. Will. Run.’ Maekar continued.