The next morning, sunlight filtered through the leaves above, warm and golden. I stirred beneath my cloak, slowly waking to the soft rustle of movement nearby and the faint smell of something cooking.
Sitting up, I blinked against the brightness and glanced around. Fafnir was already awake—of course he was—and crouched by the fire, tending to a small spit where fresh meat sizzled over the flames. A few plump, feathered creatures—wild fowl, maybe—lay nearby, already cleaned and ready for cooking. He'd been up early and hunted before I even opened my eyes.
"You're finally up," he said without turning, flipping the meat. "You sleep like a rock."
I rubbed my eyes and gave a tired grin. "I was enjoying the peace. Didn't know you were already out playing hunter."
Fafnir glanced over his shoulder, smirking. "Someone had to get us breakfast. You'd probably sleep through a dragon landing next to you."
