Morju whistled sharply, holding his left arm aloft with refined arrogance. A dark shape plummeted from the sky and with a great beating of wings came to rest on the offered perch. The Sygallia was a hunter, but she only hunted at Morju’s command.

Still kneeling, Arman proffered a small pouch of viscera. At of the edge of his vision he watched Morju dip his fingers into the opening and withdraw a bloody chunk of meat that radiated steam in the frigid air.

“You hunted beautifully today, Natxa.”

Natxa preened under Morju’s praise, dancing back and forth on his arm. Morju chuckled. “You see, Arman. I think she’s trained me rather than the other way around.” He dangled the meat in front of the Sygallia, waiting until her barbed tongue had snatched it from him before wiping his hand on the stained towel at his belt.

A thickly accented voice called out to the patio. “I think you’ve played long enough. It’s time to get down to business.”

Morju stroked Natxa’s neck. “Don’t confuse hospitality for weakness.”