“You stare a lot,” I say.
“You are interesting to look at.”
“That is not a normal thing to say first thing in the morning.”
“Since when do I do normal, princess?.”
I shake my head and swing my feet onto the floor.
The cottage is quiet except for the soft crackle of the dying embers in the hearth. Outside, the marsh wind moves gently through the reeds, carrying the faint distant sounds of the village beginning its day.
For a little while, Briarthorn feels almost normal again. Too normal. I push that thought away as I move around the kitchen.
Bread warms in the pan while I slice apples and pour tea into two chipped mugs. The small domestic routine settles my thoughts, the familiar movements grounding me in a way nothing else has managed since the alley.
Behind me, Threxian sits at the table watching with open fascination.
“You are doing it again,” I say without turning around.
“Watching?”
“Yes.”
“I enjoy observing competence.”
“You enjoy making people uncomfortable.”
“That as well.”
I set the plate on the table and slide into the chair across from him.
“Well, enjoy breakfast instead.”
He studies the food like it might attack him.
“Bread,” he says thoughtfully.
“You’ve seen bread before.”
“Yes.”
“Have you eaten it?”
“Occasionally.”
“That is not reassuring.”
He tears off a piece and tastes it. The reaction is immediate. His eyes narrow slightly in surprise.
“This is very good.”
“It’s bread.”
“Still impressive.”
I laugh softly and sip my tea. For a little while we sit together in quiet comfort. The bond remains calm. The world remains calm. Which is exactly why the tension begins to creep slowly into my chest. Because Briarthorn never stays quiet for long.
By midday the first whispers begin. A child burned in a kitchen accident. The story spreads quickly through the village, changing shape as it moves from door to door.
