The inside of the Iron-Whale smelled of the concentrated, musk-heavy scent of three anxious alpha males.
It was a nightmare.
The sphere was eight feet in diameter. On paper, or scratched into the dirt of the courtyard, which had seemed spacious enough for three men. In practice, with Zarek's massive, broad-shouldered frame taking up nearly forty percent of the volume, it felt like being packed inside a coffin.
They would have practiced before leaving.
It was hot. Zarek's body naturally ran at the temperature of a blast furnace, and in the confined, sealed space, he was effectively a space heater set to 'kill.' Sweat beaded on Syris's pale forehead. Ren's silk robes were already clinging to his skin.
Yet, no one complained.
Zarek did not growl about his cramped legs. Syris did not hiss about the humidity. Ren did not whine about the lack of personal space or the fact that Zarek's elbow was digging into his ribs.
