Leaving Tassin to finish dressing, Sabre wandered over to a stew pot that hung above a cook fire’s embers. While he sampled it, he glanced at the cyber’s data. The sentries patrolled on the camp’s outskirts, staying well away from the tents to avoid intruding upon the royals’ privacy. The cyber tracked their meandering progress and frequent meetings to chat.
Tassin emerged and glared at him. “What are you doing? This is no time to eat!”
He glanced at her. “On the contrary, I’m hungry.” Taking in her ruffled pink finery, he chuckled.
She flushed. “This was Mirrial’s idea, not mine.”
Sabre tried to stifle his laughter, coughing. “It suits you.”
“It is a stupid dress!”
“I think it’s cute. All those bows and ruffles, little flowers too. You look like a real queen.”
Tassin stamped her foot. “Very funny. Let us go!”
Sabre chuckled and returned his attention to the food. “What’s the rush? This is a really good stew.”
“What if someone wakes up?”
He shook his head. “That will only happen if you wake them with your squeaks of rage.”