The air inside the cottage was warmer than I expected.
Not stuffy. Not damp.
Warm in the way a lived-in place is warm.
The faint scent of herbs and woodsmoke lingered, mixing with something sweeter I could not immediately identify. The light was soft, filtered through thin curtains that turned the evening glow into gold.
I stood just inside the door for a moment, letting my eyes adjust.
This is… normal.
A small wooden table. Two chairs. Shelves lined with jars. Dried plants hanging upside down from the beams. A woven rug near the hearth. A kettle resting over low coals.
No strange symbols.
No ominous magic circles.
No suspicious piles of skulls.
Just a cottage.
Just a home.
[How disappointing,] Nero said. [I expected at least one dramatic candle arrangement.]
I was expecting something more threatening.
[Perhaps a glowing orb. Or a suspiciously large book titled Forbidden Arts.]
The old woman chuckled softly as if she could hear the tension in my breathing.
