The sun still poured through the office windows, warm and steady, when Forsythia and Heather found themselves in an easy, unhurried conversation. Her laughter, light and rare these days, seemed to make the polished glass desk beside them less cold.
Heather's phone buzzed on the table. He picked it up, typed something quickly, then set it down without breaking the flow of their talk.
A few minutes later, a gentle knock at the door drew both their attention.
"Come in," Heather called.
His secretary stepped in, holding the door for someone behind him. To Forsythia's surprise, it was the chef—dressed in his full whites, hat and all—carrying a polished silver tray.
Heather's expression shifted ever so slightly, a mix of anticipation and nervousness. "I… ordered something for you," he said, almost hesitantly. "Something you used to love when you were younger. Your favorite dish—you used to eat it almost every day."
The chef stepped forward, setting the tray on the low table. With a practiced flourish, he lifted the lid.
The aroma filled the air instantly, warm and familiar, curling through the sunlit room.
Forsythia's eyes blurred before she even realized she was crying. Her throat tightened, the words catching before they could form.
Heather's brow furrowed, concern replacing his earlier nervousness. "What happened? Why are you crying again?"
She shook her head, smiling through the tears. "It's nothing… It's just—the last time I had this dish was when we all lived together. After you left… Mother never let the cook make it for me at home. So I stopped eating it altogether. It felt… meaningless without you there."
Heather's face darkened, a flicker of anger sparking in the air around him like the faintest static charge. His aura rose before he could contain it, the atmosphere in the room shifting almost imperceptibly.
The secretary's eyes widened. "Sir," he said quickly, his voice edged with worry.
Heather drew a long, slow breath, forcing the energy back down until the air stilled again. "I'm fine," he said, voice low but steady.
But inside, a sharper determination took root—stronger than before. He would make this right for his daughter. And before that… her mother would have to answer for it.
He looked back at Forsythia, only to find her watching him with quiet concern. His expression softened.
"Come on," he said gently, gesturing to the food. "Eat. You're back with me now, and I'm going to make sure you have everything you love—food, clothes, anything in the world. Whatever it is… you'll have it."
The sunlight glinted off the silver tray, the warm scent of the dish wrapping around them like a memory reclaimed.
Forsythia reached for her fork, still dabbing at her eyes with the napkin. Heather watched her take the first bite, his shoulders easing as her expression softened with every chew.
From his perch on the back of a nearby chair, the small bird tilted its head. Aldric's voice—dry, knowing, and utterly human despite his form—broke the quiet.
"Squeak.. Funny thing about food," he said, his feathers ruffling slightly. "It binds people tighter than contracts or bloodlines. Share a meal often enough, and it becomes its own oath."
Forsythia looked over at him, her eyes bright with curiosity. "You really think so?"
The little bird gave a slow blink, his sharp gaze dropping to the pattern on her hand. "I know so. Some promises are sealed with ink or steel… others with the taste of something you never forget."
For a moment, he was no longer in the sunlit office. In his mind's eye, he saw himself as a man again—sitting across a low wooden table almost a millennium ago, sharing a steaming meal with Caelric Dorian Heather, laughter echoing in the firelight. That night, an oath had been made without a word.
Heather caught the way Aldric's gaze lingered on the pattern, but chose to stay silent. The sunlight spilled across the desk, the scent of the dish lingering—warm and comforting, yet carrying the faint echo of something much older.
Heather noticed the little bird's gaze had grown distant, a shadow of some old memory flickering behind his bright eyes. Wanting to lighten the mood, he pointed toward a small side table where a platter sat waiting.
"I wasn't sure what you might like to eat," Heather said, "so I got you a fruit platter—everything cut into small pieces—and some dry fruits to munch on."
The moment Aldric saw it, all solemnity vanished. His beak parted slightly, eyes locking on the vibrant slices of melon, berries, and apple. His feathers fluffed with pure, unguarded delight, and in a heartbeat he had fluttered down from his perch to land beside the platter.
He looked up at Heather, his eyes sparkling like a child's in a candy shop. For a moment, he was on the verge of spilling some over-the-top praise—then his pride caught up with him, and his expression smoothed into something far more reserved.
"I can manage," he said with an airy nonchalance, giving the smallest nod. "Thank you."
Forsythia and Heather exchanged a glance, both having clearly seen the excitement in his earlier reaction. They hid their smiles, afraid that laughing openly might make him self-conscious.
Aldric began to eat, savoring every bite with a quiet joy that was obvious to anyone watching. His little beak worked quickly, and a faint sound of contentment escaped him every now and then.
Taking the cue, Forsythia and Heather turned back to their own meals. Soon, the clink of silverware quieted as they set their forks down, pleasantly full.
They both looked toward the side table again. Aldric lay there, belly comfortably rounded, wings stretched lazily on either side as he hummed a tune to himself—a simple, happy sound that filled the sunny office.
Forsythia smiled, and Heather's lips curved faintly in return. For a moment, the three of them simply existed in the warmth of that small, shared peace.