Bonesplinter Ravine Concrete Halls

Machiavelli eyed the plants with suspicion, his gaze narrowing as he noted her moment of hesitation, the sudden shift of her paw. The bundle’s components seemed harmless enough—nothing immediately recognizable as poison—however, that didn't necessarily mean they were safe to consume either.

For a fleeting moment, he deliberated, weighing the risk against the uncertainty. Yet, in the end, the calculation seemed simple: whatever she offered could hardly be worse than the horrors Herod had subjected him to, nor could it rival the more questionable substances he'd consumed in the past.

It didn’t take long before the plants began working their magic. No ill effects, sharp pangs, or foaming at the mouth—not yet, at least. If anything, a curious sense of calm began to bloom within him, like the slow unfurling of a cat in the sun. He felt... pleasant? Yes, pleasant. Perhaps even good. Very good. The ever-present ache that gnawed at his body seemed to melt away, dissipating like mist in the morning light.

He let his head sink lazily onto his paws, casting a glance up at Eira with wide, opalescent eyes—now soft, almost doe-like—that shimmered like molten glass in the reflected light. I think you gave me too much, my darling Eira, he murmured, a crooked smile tugging at the corners of his lips, nearly wide enough to be called a grin.