For two days, Draven did not mock him. Varek noticed the change the first morning. He walked into the training yard, braced for the usual insults, the shoves, the laughter. Instead, Draven stood near the weapons rack with his Thunder Roc on his shoulder, watching. His eyes tracked Varek across the yard the way a hawk tracks a mouse in a field. He said nothing. He just watched. It was more unsettling than any shove could have been. Varek kept his head down and his shoulders hunched, but he felt those cold eyes on the back of his neck through every drill. When he stumbled, Draven saw it. When he let his practice sword droop, Draven saw it. When he whispered to the Gnarl under his breath, pretending to comfort the mewling creature, Draven's eyes narrowed just a fraction. In the dining hall at midday, the same cold stare followed him. Varek sat alone at his corner table with his bowl of thin stew, and across the hall, surrounded by his laughing friends, Draven ate in silence. He did n