Chapter 387: The Need To Create
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.
She leaned in and took the bite from his hand, eyes fluttering shut with delight. "That is unreasonably good," she said around the mouthful.
"I was thinking the same," Alaric chuckled, licking honey from his thumb. He lied.
"I don’t think I’ve ever had food that actually made me want to live again," Jean murmured, and everyone laughed—softly, but with the weight of relief. It felt good to laugh again. It felt real.
Salviana reached for the teapot and refilled her cup, humming thoughtfully. "I wonder what they put in this. There’s a sweetness—almond? No, almost like vanilla..."
"It’s Wyfhaven cinnamon bark," Jean said, perking up. "I used to collect it with my father when I was younger. It grows closer to the water."