**Part 2: Dinner With the Enemy**
Varden awoke on his back, arms above his head, on the rug of the command tent. He glanced down, expecting to find himself covered in bruises. Instead, he was covered by a thin blanket, woven of some soft material.
The act of lifting his head and looking down sent splitting pain through his head. Gods, that powder. What had it done to him?
“Ah! You’re finally awake. Splendid,” a woman’s voice announced beside him.
He craned his neck, seeing Lorel lounging on a large dining chair at the head of her oak table. A spread of food was placed before her, the delicious smells wafting his direction. His stomach grumbled; he hadn’t eaten in… Wait, how long had it been?
Lorel was dressed, thankfully. She wore a pair of high leather boots, soft looking pants, and an elaborate tunic of silk, some kind of woolen shirt peeking out beneath the sleeves. She looked comfortable, like a human noble might, though far more casual.
“How long did I sleep?” he croaked. His throat was raw.
“Oh, twelve, fourteen hours,” she responded in a nonchalant tone. “It’s supper time. Hungry?”