A few minutes later, the waitress returned, balancing a steaming wooden tray with practiced ease. The aroma hit Elarion first—crispy bacon glistening with fat, golden egg yolks jiggling like tiny suns, thick rye toast slathered in melting butter, and a hearty bowl of oat porridge swirled with golden honey that dripped lazily over the edges. She set it down with a soft clink of crockery, her bodice straining just enough to make the laces creak faintly.
"Enjoy your breakfast, sir," she said, voice warm and smoky, like mead by the fire. Then she turned, hips swaying in a slow, hypnotic rhythm—left, right, left—like a pendulum designed by the gods specifically to torture lonely men. Her breasts bounced gently with each step, a soft, generous jiggle that defied gravity in the most unfair way possible.
Outwardly, Elarion's poker face remained flawless: eyes half-lidded, expression serene as a meditating monk who'd counted ten million sheep and was now personally acquainted with each one. He even managed a polite nod, calm and dignified.
Inside? Absolute chaos.
*Oh yes, thank you, universe,* his brain crowed, zooming in like a hawk on every delicious detail. *Left cheek, right cheek—perfect symmetry. Bounce level: catastrophic. I am appreciating this on an artistic, scholarly, and extremely hormonal level. Do not ruin this for me, face muscles.*
He picked up his fork with the steady hand of a seasoned adventurer facing a dragon, speared a piece of bacon, and ate slowly, savoring the salty crunch, the warm butter melting on his tongue, the quiet satisfaction of a good breakfast in the early morning light. Life, for three glorious minutes, was tolerable.
Then he glanced up—and spotted them.
Directly across the room, at a sunlit table by the window, sat a couple. Both around twenty-five, same as him. The girl had sunny blonde curls tumbling over her shoulders, freckles across her nose, and a laugh like wind chimes in summer. The boy—tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy grin and hair that somehow looked artfully tousled—was leaning in, whispering something that made her giggle and swat his arm playfully. Their hands were intertwined on the tabletop. A half-eaten plate of honey cakes sat between them, and every so often he'd feed her a bite while she blushed and laughed again.
They were radiating couple energy so brightly it could power a small village.
Elarion's poker face didn't crack. Not even a twitch. He continued chewing his eggs with mechanical precision, gaze forward, the picture of calm.
Inside, however, a lone wolf had awakened. A very angry, very jealous, very dramatic lone wolf.
The sheep he'd so carefully counted that morning? Gone. Massacred.
In his mind's eye, he was ripping through the flock like a furry apocalypse—tearing wool, scattering hooves, howling at the moon while a dramatic thunderstorm raged overhead.
*MOTHERF—* the wolf snarled, eyes glowing red. *Look at this guy. LOOK AT HIM. Feeding her honey cakes. Holding her hand in PUBLIC. Who even does that? I ought to challenge him to a duel. Swords at dawn. Or spoons. I'll beat him with this very spoon. Then I'll steal his girlfriend—no, wait, that's unethical. Fine. I'll just steal his honey cakes and eat them alone in the dark while crying.*
Outwardly, he took another slow, dignified bite of toast.
The wolf paced furiously.
*Why is she laughing at his jokes? My jokes are funny too! ...Okay, I haven't told any in years, but theoretically! And why does he get to touch her hand? I've been touching my own hand for YEARS and it doesn't count!*
The couple leaned closer, sharing a soft kiss over the table.
The wolf threw back its head and let out a silent, anguished howl that echoed only in Elarion's skull.
He calmly sipped his small beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and continued eating like a good, civilized boy.
Inside, the lone wolf sat down in the wreckage of a million shredded sheep, buried its muzzle in its paws, and whimpered.
A few minutes later, Elarion scraped the last golden smear of honey from the porridge bowl, the wooden spoon clinking softly against the empty crockery. The bacon's salty richness still lingered on his tongue, warm and satisfying, while the morning light had shifted to a brighter, cheerier glow across the tavern floor.
The waitress approached again, her footsteps light on the worn planks, that same subtle vanilla-and-herbs scent drifting ahead of her. She gathered his empty plates with a practiced sweep, the faint clatter of stacked dishes punctuating the quiet.
"Anything else I can get you, sir?" she asked, voice low and pleasantly husky from hours of greeting customers.
He shook his head once, calm and concise. "No, thank you. Just the bill."
She nodded, a small, professional smile tugging at her lips. "Be right back."
True to her word, she returned moments later with a scrap of parchment tallying the cost—neat ink strokes beside tiny drawings of eggs and bread. Elarion fished out the required coppers from his pouch; the coins chimed softly as they hit the wooden tray. On impulse, he added three extra silvers for her trouble. They glinted in the sunlight as he slid them forward.
Her hazel eyes widened a fraction in genuine surprise, then softened. "Thank you kindly for your patronage. You're always welcome back—next time, too."
"You're welcome," he replied evenly, the words tasting polite and distant on his tongue.
She turned away, hips swaying with that effortless rhythm, bodice laces whispering faintly as she moved to the next table.
Elarion rose, cloak rustling around his shoulders, ready to escape into the crisp morning air. But as he stepped toward the door, the sound hit him again—that bright, tinkling cascade of the girl's laughter, followed by the boy's deeper chuckle, their voices twining like ivy. They were still there, heads bent close, sharing a forkful of honey cake, utterly lost in each other.
The lone wolf inside him growled low, hackles rising.
*Still going? Seriously? Do you two live here now?*
Outwardly, his poker face remained ironclad—jaw set, eyes forward, stride measured. Inwardly, the wolf bared its teeth and sprinted.
He quickened his pace, boots thudding a little harder on the floorboards than strictly necessary. The door's iron handle was cool under his palm as he shoved it open, the tavern bell jangling a cheerful farewell that felt entirely too mocking.
Cool winter air slapped his face the moment he stepped outside—sharp with woodsmoke, damp earth, and the distant tang of the river. He pulled his cloak tighter, exhaled a long plume of white breath, and marched down the gravel path without looking back.
Behind him, through the closing door, one last ripple of shared laughter escaped into the morning.
The wolf howled silently all the way home.