Joren tore off a piece and chewed theatrically. “Better texture than horsehide,” he said, grinning through the bite.
Thessa rolled her eyes and unbraided her golden waves.
Her mother sat back down, rubbing flour from her hands. “Don’t be crude,” she chided. “Not everything has to be a joke.”
“Everything in this kingdom is,” he countered, tearing another bite of bread. “Else we’d choke on silence.”
Thessa hid a smile, smoothing her thumb over the rough crust in her hand. She liked when they bickered. It made the room feel fuller.
“Anyway,” her mother went on, “the market was near bare today. Not a sack of barley to be seen. And the potatoes—” she shook her head—“priced like jewels.”
“Always the taxes,” Joren muttered. “The king raises his hand and somehow the only thing that rises for us is the cost of supper.”
“You could try earning more,” their mother replied sweetly.
That drew a groan from him. “Gods above, I already shovel more muck than any horse deserves. If I earned coin by the bucket, we’d be rich.”
“By the smell, we are,” Thessa observed dryly.
Sera giggled at that, looking up at her with wide, shining eyes. The sound warmed something in her chest to see her sister laugh, even for a little while. Evenings were always easier. It was the nights and mornings that were hardest.
Joren pointed dramatically at Thessa.
“Traitor.”
“Realist.”
“Fine. Then realism can fetch more kindling tomorrow morning.”
“Only if you don’t fall asleep in the hay first.”
The back-and-forth went on until their mother broke it with a stern cluck of her tongue. “Enough. Both of you. Eat while it’s warm.”
They did. When the bowls were empty, Joren rose, stretching until his joints cracked. He leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to Sera’s forehead, then ruffled Thessa’s hair until she shoved his hand away.
“You’re leaving?” she asked. “Now?”
He grinned crookedly, reaching for his boots. “The castle stables don’t sleep. The Varantian prince has arrived, and apparently his horses demand royal treatment. Fresh straw, polished tack, the works.”
“Lucky animals,” Thessa muttered.
“Luckier than us,” Joren muttered, tugging on his coat. He winked at her as he slipped out into the night.
“Don’t sleep too deep, girls,” her mother muttered as she gathered the bowls. “Dreamers die twice.”
Thessa didn’t argue. She never did when her mother said things like that—it was truth carved too deep into bone. Sera had already trotted back to the bed, curling onto her side, her small hands tucked beneath her cheek as if the world were still kind enough to let her rest.
Later, when the house quieted and the single candle guttered low, Thessa lay listening to Sera’s breathing beside her. Light, even, with the little hum her sister always carried into sleep, like she was holding a tune the world had forgotten.
At first, Thessa almost smiled. But the sound wavered tonight, drifting low and strange, pulling itself into something unfamiliar.
Her sister’s hand twitched against the wall, soot smudging beneath her nails. Curved lines began to take shape, a swirl, a hook.
Thessa pushed up onto an elbow. “Sera?” she whispered.
No answer. Only that hum, breaking into words.
“They’re watching… fire inside, fire below…”
