The tavern door groaned as Lucien pushed it open. Warmth rolled over him instantly, a wave so sudden and rich it nearly stole his breath. His cheeks flushed from the change in temperature, and the tips of his ears tingled pleasantly.
The room inside glowed with lamplight, the walls paneled in dark wood polished smooth by years of touch. A fire roared in a stone hearth, its flames painting the rafters gold. The smell was intoxicating—roast meats, fresh bread, melted cheese, sweet cider spiced with cinnamon. The air buzzed with laughter, clinking mugs, and music plucked from a lute in the corner.
Lucien stopped just inside the doorway, overwhelmed. All his life, he had known only the sterile white of hospitals, the antiseptic tang of disinfectant. Now every sense screamed with stimulation: heat, smell, sound, color. His stomach growled so loudly he nearly doubled over.
A few heads turned toward him, curious.
"Well now, what's this?" boomed a cheerful voice.
Lucien startled as a broad-shouldered elf in a stained apron strode forward. The man's hair was dark and pulled back, his face ruddy from the heat of the kitchen. He looked like someone carved from oak and laughter.
"You lost, little one?" the man asked, crouching to eye level.
"I—" Lucien swallowed, nerves prickling. "I… I'm hungry."
The tavern erupted in chuckles.
"Hear that, Marn? Kid's got the right idea!" someone shouted from a table.
The man—Marn, apparently—grinned. "Well, you've come to the right place. Come, sit. We'll fix you up."
He ushered Lucien toward a table by the fire. The chair felt enormous, the cushion soft against him. Lucien's legs dangled; he wasn't used to having a body this small. He tried not to look as awkward as he felt, but when his stomach growled again the table beside him erupted in laughter once more.
"Someone feed him before he eats the wood off the table!" a voice teased.
Lucien flushed scarlet, sinking into his seat.
Before he could die of embarrassment, a softer voice spoke beside him.
"Here. Try this."
He turned and blinked.
A girl about his age—or what his new age appeared to be—stood holding a tray. She had auburn hair pulled into a loose braid, with little wisps escaping to frame a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were blue-gray, the color of snow clouds, and they sparkled with mischief as she slid a steaming mug and a small plate before him.
Lucien stammered. "I—I didn't order…"
"It's on the house," she said with a grin. "First-timers get fed before they faint."
The plate held a golden roll stuffed with something savory, steam curling from its crust. The mug smelled of apples and spice, rich and warm.
Lucien hesitated, then took a bite of the roll. Flavor exploded on his tongue—meat, herbs, melted cheese all wrapped in fluffy bread. His eyes widened. He devoured it in seconds, cheeks puffed like a squirrel's.
The girl laughed, covering her mouth. "Slow down, you'll choke."
Lucien swallowed hard. "S-sorry! I've never—It's just—It's so good."
The girl tilted her head curiously. "Never had a pasty before?"
He shook his head, embarrassed.
"You must be from far away." She set her tray on the table and sat across from him, propping her chin on her hands. "I'm Noelle. Noelle Arden. My family runs this tavern."
Lucien froze, then remembered himself. "I'm… Lucien. Lucien Corvin."
"Lucien Corvin," she repeated, testing the name like it was something unusual. "Sounds fancy."
He laughed nervously. "It's… just my name."
"Well, Lucien-not-fancy, you eat like someone who hasn't seen food in weeks."
"I really… haven't," he admitted before he could stop himself. His voice went quieter. "Not like this."
Something flickered in her eyes—curiosity, sympathy—but she didn't pry. Instead she pushed the mug toward him. "Drink."
The cider was sweet and tangy, warming him from throat to belly. He sighed audibly after the first gulp, earning another laugh from Noelle.
"You're funny," she said.
"I'm not trying to be," he muttered, though a smile tugged at his lips.
For a while, they sat as the tavern bustled around them. Noelle told him stories of the town: the winter markets, the carolers who would soon start filling the streets, the great tree they would raise in the square. She teased him gently whenever his jaw dropped at something ordinary to her but miraculous to him.
Lucien felt a strange lightness. In the hospital, conversations had always been hushed, careful, weighted with worry. Here, laughter came easily, words danced, and he didn't feel like a fragile thing everyone tiptoed around.
He was just a boy, sitting across from a girl, sharing food.
For once, that was enough.
But as the night stretched on, Lucien's gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the snow had slowed to a gentle fall, flakes spiraling lazily in the lamplight. In the distance, beyond the town, he noticed a column of smoke rising into the sky. Not the thin smoke of chimneys, but something larger, darker, curling against the stars.
He frowned. "What's that?"
Noelle followed his gaze, her expression softening into a smile.
"Oh, that?" She leaned closer, as if sharing a secret. "That's Santa's workshop."
Lucien blinked. "Santa's… what?"
Her eyes sparkled. "You'll see."
And with that, the chapter of wonder in Lucien's new life turned another page.