Tycondrius looked down at his hand.
He was subconsciously holding onto Pale's wooden bowl with a vice-like claw-grip.
He swallowed his saliva and forcibly willed his hand to relax, allowing the boy to take that which was specifically prepared for him.
Nutrients...
Tycon selected the ingredients for Pale's meal, not for him as a convalescent patient, but to behoove a youngling in his growth period.
"Mmmm..."
The boy cried as he ate. Undoubtedly, they were tears of joy.
"I... I really... really missed this," Pale said, his voice filled with emotion, "Thank you, Sir... Thank you so much."
Tycon turned his back. He keenly felt his own rising emotions marring his expression.
He felt that perhaps... it was the last time he'd be taller than the boy. Surely, with just a single bowl of fortified soup--
"Sir, may I have another?"
"Serve it yourself," Tycon snapped, still looking away.
