Stark pulled a cigarette from the pack with a slightly trembling hand and tried to light it from the campfire, but accidentally made the flame too large and nearly burned his hand.
Schiller snatched the cigarette from his hand, shook out the flame, relit it with a still-warm piece of charcoal nearby, and handed it back to Stark.
"You don't smoke?"
"I don't need cigarettes to relieve anxiety."
"I wasn't—"
Stark realized that whenever he contradicted Schiller, Schiller would put on that standard dismissive expression. Next would come, "Yes, yes, sure, sure," as though they had never had a single argument.
Stark took a drag and coughed several times from the smoke. He saw Schiller sitting by the fire, using a rock to pound away the pattern on the metal badge he had just thrown into the flames.
Schiller tilted his head, one half of his face illuminated by the campfire while the other lay in shadow. Stark thought the scene could not have described Schiller any better.
Half Assassin, half child. The focus he brought to everything he did made it easy to imagine what he looked like when he killed: just as calm, just as natural, carrying a bloody terror born from childish malice.
Stark felt slightly frightened by his own imagination. He took another drag, this time successfully swallowing the smoke. The nicotine's stimulation cleared his head a little.
"Why are you grinding it off?" Stark asked, referring to what Schiller was doing. The pattern on the metal badge was nearly invisible now.
"They're not on the same side," Schiller said. "The locals probably won't like those mercenaries. We can't let them know we had dealings with them."
Stark suddenly thought of Erik again. He considered it before asking, "What would happen if they found out?"
Schiller's