Silas drains his bowl in late mirror, one hand lifted to scrub broth from the bristle brush of his mustache. From there he has bones to flip into the fire while Ellis percolates, sparing only one glance to see that he’s gathering his thoughts and not attempting to vanish himself away into the Fade.

There’s more mess to clean, uneaten meat to wrap for the morning, but he stills to listen when Ellis speaks. His expression is inscrutable. Neutral.

The tell is in his eyes, his curiosity for the world of black-market magic flinty sharp in the firelight.

“Does the blood have to be taken from a person?”

Thot patters on unconcerned along the cave wall.