Dinner that night was quiet, the way battles always ended best. Inigo set the skillet on the stove, the scent of sizzling garlic and onions filling the cramped kitchen. Lyra leaned against the table, bow unstrung and propped in the corner, her posture loose but her eyes sharp, like a soldier who had learned the body could rest even when the mind refused.
"You cook after everything," she said at last.
Inigo stirred the pan, brow furrowed in concentration. "Cooking makes sense. Heat, time, measure. Physics doesn't lie. People do."
Her lips quirked faintly. "And food never talks back."
"Unless you burn it."
The steam curled upward, carrying warmth through the little room. Outside, the streets still buzzed with the leftover energy of the cheer they'd walked through. Even here, away from the guild plaza, they could hear faint voices singing their names like they were already half in the songs of bards.
Lyra rubbed at her temple. "It's too much. Too fast."
