There was a quiet rustle behind the curtain.
It shifted just slightly, like someone unsure if they were allowed to enter. Then, slowly, a head peeked through—hesitant but drawn by the sound of a familiar voice. It was Opehlia. Her brows were slightly drawn together in curiosity, lips parted as if she'd been holding her breath.
She didn't say anything right away, just looked—searching.
The moment Opehlia peeked her head inside, Isabella could already see the light shift in her eyes. It was like watching a soft breeze pass through a sunny morning—gentle, glowing, pure.
"Valen!" Opehlia gasped, her voice as bright as the sunrise over fresh dew, and before Isabella could even roll her eyes, the girl pushed aside the curtain in full and skipped inside.
She held a carved wooden bowl in one hand, filled with soup, the scent still rising in slow, spiraling steam. She barely registered the rest of the room before placing it carefully on a stone slab next to the log chair.
