Night had settled over the city, heavy and quiet. Inside Theodore's home, a false sense of peace had settled over the remaining children. The house was dimly lit, relying on a few shielded electric lamps rather than the usual bright, steam-powered fixtures, a precaution against attracting unwanted attention.
Theodore and Aveline were not there; Aveline had taken Theodore to a secure, undisclosed location immediately after his discharge from the infirmary to ensure his shrapnel wounds and concussion were treated away from prying eyes.
The children, wearing their simple, civilian clothes—sweaters, trousers, and light jackets—were spread throughout the living area. Rhys was restlessly checking the seals on the windows, his black ponytail swinging with his quick, nervous movements. Felix and Beatrice were huddled on the sofa, whispering in low tones about the latest news reports from the city's central square. Theta was quietly sharpening a discarded utility blade, her movements economical and precise.
The only light and warmth came from the kitchen, where Eta was working. She had transformed the space into her own temporary forge, though she was working with ingredients, not metal. She wore a simple, flour-dusted apron over her shirt, her hair tied back with a careless knot. The air was rich with the savory smell of simmering meat and herbs—a welcome, nourishing scent that cut through the sterile memory of the infirmary.
Corbin entered the kitchen, moving with his usual silent, detached grace. He stopped just inside the doorway, his lean, intellectual build outlined by the warm kitchen light. He watched Eta for a long moment as she expertly stirred a large pot bubbling gently on the stove.
"I didn't know you could cook," he finally said, his voice measured and quiet.
Eta turned her head, surprised by his presence. She hadn't heard him enter. She smiled slightly, the steam from the pot reflecting the light in her eyes.
"Of course I can cook," she replied, a touch of playful arrogance in her tone. She lifted the ladle and stirred the thick mixture with a practiced hand. "It's one of the few practical skills they didn't teach us in the program."
She turned fully toward him, resting the ladle on the edge of the pot. "I watched the cooks in the Reed Manor kitchens. They spent all day doing it. It looked incredibly difficult, but when you watch how they combine the ingredients... it's just a formula."
"A complicated formula, perhaps," Corbin murmured, stepping closer. He looked at the bubbling stew, then at her focused expression.
Eta scooped a small amount of the stew into a separate ceramic dish, blowing lightly on it before offering it to him. "Taste it. Tell me if I got the seasoning right."
Corbin took the dish and held it carefully. He dipped his finger into the thick liquid and brought it to his lips. He closed his eyes for a brief second as the flavor registered—the deep, satisfying warmth of the spices and the tender texture of the meat. It was simple, robust, and expertly executed.
His eyes opened, a faint, almost imperceptible shift in his neutral expression. The food was genuinely comforting, a stark contrast to the sterile rations they usually consumed.
"You really do have talented hands, Eta," he said, handing the dish back. It was a simple, honest compliment, delivered with the total conviction of his objective analysis.
Eta felt a heat rise in her cheeks, spreading from her neck upwards. She quickly turned back to the stove, fiddling with the gas control for the burner, a completely unnecessary adjustment.
"Of course I'm talented," she mumbled, trying to recapture her bravado, but the sudden, unearned blush gave her away. She pretended to focus intensely on skimming the surface of the stew.
Corbin watched the subtle shift in her posture, the slight flush on the back of her neck. He remained silent, observing her reaction, not needing to analyze the simple chemistry of the moment.
The warm silence, shared only between the two of them, was suddenly, violently shattered.
The Unexpected Guest
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
The sound was sharp, loud, and insistent, echoing through the quiet house. It was not the cautious tap of a neighbor, but a hurried, demanding assault on the front door.
Every child in the living room froze. Rhys stopped mid-pace, his hand dropping instantly to the knife concealed in his trousers. Theta's head snapped up, her eyes wide. Felix and Beatrice gasped, pressing themselves further into the sofa.
"Who could that be?" Felix whispered, his voice laced with panic, looking toward the hallway. "Knocking at this hour..."
Corbin stepped out of the kitchen, his expression instantly reverting to the cold mask of the tactician. The warmth of the kitchen was gone. He was focused entirely on the breach of security.
"Stay put," Corbin commanded, his voice low and firm. "Rhys, cover the back entrance. The rest of you, be ready."
He didn't wait for a response. He moved swiftly to the front door, avoiding the sightline of the peephole. He positioned himself against the wall and slowly, meticulously, released the heavy brass security bolts one by one, the clank-clank-clank sounding deafening in the silence.
He gripped the handle and pulled the door inward, just a crack. He pressed his eye to the narrow opening, his mind prepared for an attack.
Instead, he saw a familiar face, illuminated by the faint glow of the streetlamp outside—a face they hadn't expected to see.
Corbin's eyes narrowed, and a single, precise word escaped his lips.
"Serafina."