Chapter 18: Reprimand and Praise
Ashvale's town square reeked of burnt apples, damp smoke, and the vague, regretful scent of magical misjudgment.
The fire had been put out hours ago—thanks to a water mage with a hangover and a dwarven bucket brigade that didn't believe in pacing themselves—but the ash clung stubbornly to everything. The cobblestones were still blackened. The fountain's edge, once bright limestone, was now soot-smeared and singed. Even the sky looked annoyed, its gray clouds puffed like an old man grumbling about the good ol' days of unburnt bakeries.
Elias sat heavily on the fountain's edge, cloak damp and reeking. His boots squelched when he moved, which didn't seem fair. Fire and wet socks? Pick a side.
Rhea sat beside him, legs too short to touch the ground, feet swinging slowly. Her soot-smeared dress hung like a flag of surrender, her hair a mess of singed curls. She looked like a child dragged backward through a fireplace.
She also looked far too calm for someone who had nearly died.
Silence clung to them both, like the ash in the air. Then—
"I smell like toast," Rhea whispered.
Elias blinked. "You do, yeah."
"And not the good kind. Not warm with honey. The kind that's black on both sides because someone forgets it in the firebox."
He gave her a sideways look. "Guilty as charged."
A pause.