The rusted ladle scraped the bottom of the cast-iron pot.
Elias poured the last half-scoop of thick, gray broth into the outstretched tin cup of a shivering fodder soldier. The man didn't offer a word of thanks. He just clutched the hot metal to his chest, his sunken eyes wide with a feral kind of reverence, and scurried back into the shadows of the Vanguard camp.
Elias lowered the ladle, his arm shaking so violently he nearly dropped it.
"You have to cut the feed," Dot pleaded in his mind. Her presence was a faint, frantic thrum against his collarbone. "Your core is micro-fracturing. If you keep holding the stability lock on that pot, you're going to pass out."
Elias didn't answer her. He couldn't spare the focus required to form the thought.
