The morning sun had barely risen, casting a soft, golden hue over the camp when the sound of clattering armor and the muffled voices of knights filled the air.
Alterain's frown deepened as he spotted Yves in the middle of the camp, sitting with his sleeves rolled up, diligently peeling tiny quail eggs for breakfast.
It irked him to see Yves, the fourth prince, engaging in such a menial task. Not only was Yves of royal blood, but he had been a key figure in tending to the wounded, healing, and nurturing soldiers in ways they could never repay.
To see him peeling eggs like a common kitchen hand only deepened the commander's frustration. Yet, Alterain kept his anger masked, unwilling to express it in front of the priestesses who hovered nearby, preparing the morning meal.
He strode toward Yves, his imposing presence enough to part the crowd without a word.
"Yves," he said, his tone hard but measured. "What are you doing?"
