Not long after Torin left, the door opened again, and a group of young women entered carrying wooden trays laden with steaming bowls and pitchers of mead. The scent of roasted meat, and baked bread filled the air, washing away the chill of the northern night. The one leading them was none other than Mirielle, her soft features lit gently by the orange flicker of the hearth.
She directed the girls with quiet confidence, her voice calm but firm as she ensured everyone was served properly. "Careful with the stew, it's still hot," she murmured to one of the attendants before moving closer to where Lucas and the others sat.
Lucas nodded politely when she placed a bowl before him. "Thank you," he said simply.
Mirielle smiled faintly, her cheeks warming. "You're welcome, my lord," she replied softly before retreating to the corner of the room once the task was done. She sat gracefully near the wall, hands folded in her lap, stealing glances at him when she thought no one was watching.
