The sun had yet to reach its peak when Erian was laying out the ingredients on the table. The soft, comforting aroma of the broth was beginning to fill the kitchen.
He was alone, and that in itself was a comfort. There were no whispers, no muffled laughter, no hurried footsteps of acolytes passing through the corridor. Only the bubbling of water in the pot and the rhythmic scrape of a knife against the cutting board.
As he chopped the herbs, he thought of Greta and Phoebe of the noise and warmth of the tavern, of Greta's teasing whenever something burned, and of Phoebe's habit of humming as she washed the dishes.
Those memories felt warm, almost tangible, as if he could still smell the wood of the counter or hear the crackling of the oven.
The temple, in contrast, was too quiet. Orderly, solemn… almost cold.
That silence was suddenly broken by whispers. Erian turned, knife still in hand, and saw three figures half-hidden in the doorway.
