Too late. The memory of Katarina’s screams in the Bloodwood guaranteed that.
Calder immediately claimed the kitchen, pulling ingredients from places I never knew we had. The man cooked like he killed, with precision, efficiency, and an alarming number of sharp instruments.
“Are you making dinner or preparing for surgery?” Vitoria asked, watching him arrange knives by size.
“Both require proper tools,” he replied, popping a piece of bread into his mouth while he worked. “And proper technique.”
“Proper technique doesn’t usually involve eating half the ingredients before they make it to the pot.”
“Quality control.” Another piece of bread disappeared. “Very important.”
I snorted, settling into my chair with a cup of tea. Silas, house cat-size once again, materialized on the windowsill with a soft thump, his eyes immediately assessing the food situation. His expression clearly conveyed his opinion of Calder’s cooking methods.
“Don’t give me that look,” Calder told him. “Furies know what you eat out there... rats?”
Silas ruffled his feathers with dignity and turned his back to us all.
“So dramatic,” Vitoria laughed, moving to the cabinet where we kept the wine. “If we’re going to pretend everything’s fine, we might as well do it properly.” She pulled out a bottle that had been gathering dust since her last birthday. “Besides, Eda Mire’s warnings always sound worse when you’re sober.”
“That’s probably the point,” I said, but I didn’t protest when she poured generous glasses for all of us.
The wine helped. So did Calder’s cooking. Which, despite his questionable preparation methods, tasted delicious. As always, Calder never missed with food.
He was the last charidryn, though most people called his kind Rune Eaters, a nickname that had stuck throughout history despite being fundamentally wrong. He didn’t eat runes. He consumed them differently, with steel instead of teeth, a distinction lost on everyone who whispered the name like a curse. Not that Calder cared what the world thought. They’d givenhima different title, anyway. The Heartless One. Earned through methodical, relentless vengeance. He'd hunted down every single person responsible for murdering his family, and he’d made sure none of them lived to regret it. Few knew the truth of how he actually used runes. Fewer still knew the truth of what drove him now, in this present life where his family’s blood had long since dried and vengeance had left him hollow.
We fell into easy conversation, the kind of mindless chatter that came from years of shared meals and secrets. Well, most shared secrets, anyway.
But as the evening wore on, I noticed Vitoria kept drifting to the window. Not obviously. Just a glance here and there, like she was checking on something. Or for someone.
“Expecting a visit?” I asked finally.
She startled slightly, then laughed it off. “It’s nothing.”
“Vitoria.”
“Really, Syneca. It’s nothing. Promise.” She settled back on the couch, curling her legs under her. “Can we just pretend we’re normal people having a normal night?”
Calder lifted a brow. “As opposed to...”
“Two witches, a grumpy griffin and a moody Rune Eater?—”
“Careful,” he said, eyes narrowing on her.
“Fine. A charidryn. But Rune Eater sounds better. More brutal, less... like a chariot.”
Calder’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Better a chariot than a broomstick, witch.”
“Hey,” she said, tossing a pillow at him. “I tried itone timewhen I was a kid. And I told you that in confidence.”
I laughed. “Confidence? You whisper-shouted it after three glasses of wine. Hardly sacred.”
“Traitor,” she scowled.
“Real friends weaponize secrets,” I said sweetly, taking another sip.
Calder drummed his fingers against the armrest, the sound sharp in the quiet. “Seems witches are only loyal until the wine wears off.”
“Better than sulking in a corner like some tragic knight,” I quipped.
