The cottage was quiet when the sun came up.
Quiet, but not peaceful—because peace doesn't creak across the floorboards in heavy boots.
Shannon was trying to make breakfast.
It wasn't going well.
He had already dropped one egg, overcooked another, and was currently arguing with the pan.
"Stay still," he muttered, poking it like it was an enemy soldier. "The coals are too hot." The third egg hissed, edges blackening.
From the bed, Tristan blinked sleepily. "What's for breakfast?"
Shannon glanced over his shoulder. "Eggs and bread."
Tristan laughed, rubbing his eyes. The air smelled faintly of smoke and toasted bread that had seen better days. "You could have woken me."
"You're supposed to rest," Shannon said, turning the pan as if he knew what he was doing. "Eira's orders."
"And where's Eira?" Tristan asked.
"Patrolling the garden," Shannon said. "With a broom. She said she's looking for hazards."
Tristan groaned. "Of course she is."
