"What's wrong with you?" Irlian whispered sharply, grabbing Arctelle's sleeve before he could walk away. The tent was thick with the scent of crushed herbs and old smoke along with the air that's heavy and suffocating.
"Pull yourself together. We just finished punishment, don't forget that."
Arctelle's hands clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. Ever since he had been summoned to heal Lyric, his temper had been on edge all day, and the strong herbal's smell only made it worse.
"That cursed commoner," he snapped. "Even when he's nowhere near, he still worms his way into Lord Davenmore's thoughts like a parasite."
Irlian frowned and lowered his voice, careful of who might be listening. "What did he do this time?"
"Didn't I tell you yesterday?" Arctelle said through clenched teeth. "After healing Lord Davenmore, instead of being praised, I was compared to that bastard, Soren."
