Then they all moved to dine in the inns restaurant after getting ready for the day.
Golden light of dawn slanted through the inn's broad windows, casting warm hues across the modest wooden dining room. The scent of spiced eggs, fresh bread, and something sweet—berry compote, maybe—floated through the air. Around a corner table, tucked beneath a long, carved beam, the fugitives sat, savoring the rare quiet.
Jean sat nestled beside Lucius, who had refused to let her lift a finger since her miraculous return from the fog. He made sure her tea stayed warm, kept an arm protectively draped along the back of her chair, and stole concerned glances every other bite, as if worried she'd vanish again.
"I'm fine," she finally whispered, nudging his knee beneath the table.
"I know," Lucius muttered, "but I'm not."
Alaric sat across from them, his long fingers expertly slicing through a chunk of warm bread, dipping it in a golden pool of honey before offering it to Salviana beside him.
