At The Field

A minute later, the door creaked open again.

Philipa stiffened.

She turned her head just in time to see Draven step back into the room, a covered plate in his hand. He didn’t look at her at first. He simply walked closer, his boots heavy against the floor, until he stood beside her bed.

She stared up at him, confused and cautious.

Without a word, he stretched the plate toward her.

“Take it,” he said. “Training starts by four. You won’t survive it looking like you’re about to starve to death.”

Her eyes widened.

“You’re… actually giving me food?” she asked, disbelief clear in her voice.

He smirked faintly and turned away.

“And by the way,” he added over his shoulder, “it’s not poisonous.”

Then he walked out, shutting the door behind him.

Philipa sat there, frozen, staring at the closed door.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” she muttered.

Her stomach answered her question with a loud, angry growl.

She sighed deeply, lifted the cover, and the smell of warm food hit her nose instantly.

H