"Nyang?"
Translation: What?
We were in Soren's office.
How we got here? Irrelevant.
What mattered was that just a few minutes ago, breakfast had turned into a full-contact sport.
Gawain rushed toward us, fork in hand, looking less like a man bringing food and more like someone about to commit a very specific, very personal crime.
For a split second, it genuinely looked like Mikael's life was about to end… by cutlery.
Mikael, however, refused to die over breakfast.
Without even breaking his rhythm, he shifted slightly to the side—just enough for Gawain's "attack" to miss completely—while smoothly bringing another piece of venison to my mouth like this was all part of a well-rehearsed routine.
I bit down again.
Gawain froze mid-motion, fork still extended, now stabbing nothing but air and his own dignity.
