Morning arrived like a soft breath. Light poured through carved beams and settled into faint patterns along the walls, glowing as if the house itself had decided to wake gently. For a long moment, I didn’t move. Warm blankets. A bed that felt like someone who understood exhaustion on a spiritual level had designed it. Silence that didn’t demand anything from me.
I could have stayed there forever. But apparently, survival involves standing up eventually.
I dressed in the least wrinkled option available and stepped into the hallway. The air smelt faintly of something warm, like bread. My stomach made a sound that could have been classified as a cry for help.
Cewyn was waiting near the stairs. Not looming, not guarding. Just present, like gravity with better hair.
“Come,” she said. “You need food.”
Music to my ears.
We walked down into a wide room where globes pulsed with a muted morning light.. A long wooden table stretched across the space, set with porcelain bowls and steaming cups. The smell hit me first: bacon, fresh bread, something sweet curling through the air like a promise. My knees almost buckled from gratitude.
“Sit,” Cewyn said.
I sat, mostly because arguing with someone who radiates calm feels like trying to fight fog. Rowan was already there, posture precise, hands wrapped around a cup like he was negotiating peace with it. He glanced up when I entered. Just a glance. Enough to make my pulse do a small interpretive dance.
A plate appeared in front of me, stacked with bread that looked like it had been kissed by sunlight. Beside it, a bowl of something warm and fragrant. I stared at it like it was a miracle.
“This smells incredible,” I said, because my brain had decided to outsource all higher thought to my stomach.
“Eat slowly,” Rowan said, voice steady, like he was giving instructions for defusing a bomb.
I tore a piece of bread and tasted it. Soft. Slightly sweet. The kind of food that makes you believe in second chances. The bowl held a stew that tasted like herbs and comfort had decided to elope. I might have made a sound. A very quiet, very reverent sound.
Cewyn smiled faintly. “Better?”
“Better than therapy,” I said around a mouthful, then froze. “Sorry. That was… loud.”
Rowan’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes flickered like amusement trying very hard to behave itself.
I ate until the ache in my chest softened and the world felt less like a sharp edge. When the last sip of tea slid down my throat, I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
Cewyn rose gracefully. “Now,” she said, “you need to learn how not to get in trouble.”
Comforting.
She guided me outside onto an elevated walkway that wound through the village like a wooden spine. Smooth planks. Carved railings. Faint lines glowing under our steps. People moved quietly between homes, carrying baskets, exchanging soft words. The air smelled of pine and something bright, like the forest had decided to forgive me for yesterday.
I tried not to look like someone who was about to fail an exam she didn’t know she’d signed up for.
“First rule,” Cewyn said, her voice calm enough to make the words feel heavier. “Do not assume you understand everything.”
“Excellent,” I said. “Because I understand nothing.”
Her mouth curved, just slightly. “Good start.”
“Second rule. Do not touch anything that hums unless you are told to.”
I blinked. “Hums? Like… sings to me? Or vibrates?”
“You will know,” she said. “If you ignore this, the consequences will be… inconvenient.”
“Define inconvenient,” I muttered. “On a scale from mild embarrassment to spontaneous combustion.”
“Closer to embarrassment,” she said. “But louder.”
Great. Loud embarrassment. My favorite genre.
“Third rule. If you feel the air shift, stop moving.”
I stared at her. “Stop moving as in freeze? Or stop moving as in panic gracefully?”
“Freeze,” she said. “Panic later.”
I nodded solemnly. “I can do that. I have years of experience in panic scheduling”
“One more,” she added, her tone soft but firm. “If you are frightened, say so. We do not guess.”
That one landed differently. I swallowed. “Understood.”
Her expression eased. “Good.”
After breakfast we walked into the village. Cobblestones hummed faintly under our steps, warm as if they remembered every foot that had ever walked there. A baker coaxed floating ribbons of dough into neat spirals above his counter, while a pair of children chased a runaway lantern that kept blinking out and reappearing three steps ahead.
We walked through it all, and something like belonging brushed against me. Not because I grasped the rules of this place, or had earned a place among its people, but because someone had offered me a seat and bread that tasted delicious. Simple, undeserved kindness in a world that shouldn’t have had any reason to give it.