Drakenfell had sent its finest to the war council.
Dexmon's wolf wanted out. Gavriel's magic wanted across the room. Hyran wanted a different seat. Hale wanted to be invisible. Four men. Four crises. One pew.
Gavriel shot out of his chair, completely unaware that Dexmon's side of the sandwich had just been told to sit down by Tiberon.
Full height. Fists at his sides. Wolf flickering behind his eyes. He had no memory of making the decision to stand. His legs had filed a motion without consulting him and the motion had passed unanimously.
Tiberon's head turned. The look arrived. The look was the same look.
Gavriel sat down so fast the pew creaked.
Hale dropped his head into his hands so hard it made a sound. His shoulders shook once. It could have been frustration. It could have been laughter.
Two men. Same pew. Same instinct. Same result. In between them, Hyran closed his eyes.
