The fire crackled quietly, its warmth cutting through the cold sting of mountain air. Trafalgar stepped closer, eyes narrowing at the pot suspended above the flames. The smell was… tolerable. Simple porridge, seasoned lightly with dried herbs.
Dren stood beside it, sleeves rolled up, stirring with a wooden ladle.
"What are you making?" Trafalgar asked, his voice flat.
"A soup, young master. Should be ready soon," Dren replied, offering a casual smile. "Would you mind watching it for a second? Nature calls… rather urgently."
Trafalgar arched a brow. "…Fine. Go."
"Thank you."
Dren handed him the ladle and walked briskly toward the rocks and sparse trees just beyond the edge of camp.
Trafalgar stirred the pot slowly, watching the mixture bubble. The flames flickered in his eyes, but his face remained unreadable.
The crunch of snow muffled under Dren's boots as he disappeared behind the largest boulder. He crouched down, grunting, then looked up as a tall shadow approached.
