"Spoiled Elurians," Morek muttered.
I picked my fork up and forced myself to eat. The eggs were good—perfectly seasoned, the toast crispy and not burnt. Morek had skills I hadn't known about.
"Where did you learn to cook?" I asked.
"My mother. Who else? Didn't your mother teach you to cook?"
"Not successfully," I admitted. "She was never happy with what I made, so I was mostly in charge of cleanup."
Morek shook his head. "That's a shame. My mother says that every man and woman should know their way around a kitchen."
I thought about my mother and how good her cooking tasted, about Gran's kitchen and the smell of herbs drying by the window. I missed them, and I needed to write them a letter, telling them I was fine, excited for the Day of Volition.They didn't need to know about the attacks and how close the assassins had been to succeeding. Hopefully, Dylon would know to keep it from them.
"What about classes?" Codric asked. "Are we all excused?"
Before anyone could answer, a knock sounded at the door.
Everyone tensed, and my hand moved toward the weapons that weren't there. Next to me, Alar did the same, frustration evident on his face when he realized that we'd left our weapons at the scene of the attack.
He rose, positioning himself between the door and the rest of us. "Who is it?"
"It is me," Saphir called from the other side of the door. "And Commander Ravel."
The tension didn't fully dissipate as Alar moved to unlock the door. It swung open to reveal the shaman with Moki perched on his shoulder and Ravel standing beside him, his dark eyes sweeping over the room.
I scrambled to my feet, suddenly painfully aware that I was still wearing my nightclothes. My cheeks caught fire.
"I should change?—"
Saphir lifted a hand. "Stay. You're fine the way you are. As far as I'm concerned, you're convalescing and will be wearing nightclothes for the next few days."
"But—"
"Sit," he said. "Eat your breakfast." He pulled out the last remaining chair at the table and sat down.
Ravel brought over one of the living room chairs, and when Morek moved to the left to make room for him, the commander put it down next to the shaman's.
Moki chirped from Saphir's shoulder, his large eyes fixed on me with what looked like concern. The little guy always seemed to understand more than he should.
"The caff smells wonderful." Saphir inhaled appreciatively. "Is there any left?"
Morek got to his feet. "I'll make a fresh pot for you and the Commander."
"Thank you."
I watched as Morek reached for a small, long-handled pot and measured ground caff directly into it along with a generous amount of sugar. He added water and set it over low heat, stirring slowly.
When it was done, Morek poured the thick, sweet brew into two small cups and presented them to Saphir and Ravel.
"Thank you." Saphir took a sip and closed his eyes in appreciation. "Excellent. This is how caff should taste."
"Thank you," Ravel said and proceeded to drain the cup quickly.
"The attackers are confirmed converts to Elusitor's cult," Saphir said.
Alar pushed his plate away. "We suspected as much."
"It's worse than we thought." Ravel reached for the pot that Morek had put on the table and refilled his cup. "They're addicted to Sitorian drugs and completely brainwashed. They parrot the same slogans that the Shedun spout about Elusitor offering his followers the kingdom of heaven in exchange for their complete submission and dutiful service. Death is not something they fear. They welcome it."
