Dain’s daughter had drawn a face on the losing piece.
Iven saw it when the paper blew against his boot.
He caught the sheet before it reached the yard’s wet channel and looked for its owner. Dain stood beside the covered workbench with one hand raised, his expression containing a brief, genuine alarm that had nothing to do with an armed opponent.
“Mine.”
Iven brought it back.
The face had an enormous mouth and two very angry eyebrows. Around it, a child’s hand had drawn the little junctions of a strategy board and arrows explaining why the piece deserved to lose.
Dain took the paper carefully.
“Thank you.”
