The breakfast table in Mayor Aldrich's manor stretched beneath a canopy of leaded glass and chandelier crystal. Velvet drapes, drawn halfway against the morning glare, softened the sunlight into a muted gold.
The air hung thick with the scents of roasted chestnuts and stewed pears, of spiced tea and the stubborn, lingering ghost of old smoke clinging to the tapestries.
Freya sat motionless, hands folded primly in her lap, as silver-domed platters were revealed one by one.
She was dressed now in a simple black dress, cinched tightly with a crimson ribbon. Her silver hair had been brushed until it gleamed—but not tamed. Strands curled in defiance, haloing her pale face.
Steam curled up in lazy tendrils, like spirits slipping free before dawn.
She tilted her head, eyes scanning the spread with quiet calculation.
Bread. Cheese. Sausages. Jam. Something golden and flaky that glittered with sugar like frost on cobblestone.
It all felt achingly familiar. A phantom limb. A warmth remembered in her soul.
Callum, beside her, moved with soldier's precision. Slice. Slab. Sausage. He ate like he expected to be interrupted at any second—efficient, unthinking, mechanical.
Freya, by contrast, stared at the sugared pastry as if it might whisper her name. Her fingers reached for it of their own accord—graceful, cautious.
She brought it close. Inhaled.
Warm. Buttery. Sweet.
She bit.
And time shattered.
The crust collapsed like spun glass. Butter washed across her tongue. Sugar kissed the roof of her mouth. And beneath it all—a bright, flickering spark of orange zest, like candlelight behind a closed door.
Her eyes widened.
She could taste it.
She blinked once. Then again. Swallowed.
It stayed.
"I thought I'd lost this," she murmured.
Callum turned, brow slightly furrowed. "Lost what?"
She didn't answer. Already her hand was reaching—mechanical now—for a slice of dark bread. She tore off a piece. Chewed.
Coarse. Earthy. Familiar.
Goat cheese followed. Sharp and sour and alive. The kind of flavor she once mocked as peasant fodder wrapped in noble pretense.
Now it anchored her.
Jam next. Crimson and sticky, it clung to the bread like blood on silk.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
Sweet. Tart. Real.
She opened her eyes slowly. Smiled.
It tasted exactly how she remembered it—how she had hoped to remember it.
And for the first time since waking in that wretched cave, since clawing her way out of death's shadow, she felt a flicker of...joy, happiness.
Across the table, Seraphine and Aldrich exchanged a subtle glance.
Callum had paused mid-chew, staring at her like she'd grown a second head.
"You look like you haven't eaten in days," he said.
Freya licked a smear of jam from her finger, then flashed a faint, wicked smile. "I'm still growing."
Callum went still.
Seraphine set down her teacup with a soft clink. "Eat as much as you like, my dear."
Freya inclined her head gracefully, already reaching for another pastry. Her hands moved with an elegance she hadn't practiced—just remembered. Somewhere.
She could feel it all. Every flake, every grain, every warmth.
A vampire. And yet… her human palate remained.
That shouldn't be possible. But she didn't care.
She looked up and caught Seraphine's gaze. Her crimson eyes gleamed like garnets catching dawn.
"Your chef," she said, "deserves a medal."
Aldrich cleared his throat awkwardly and turned toward the butler. "You heard the young lady."
Sebastian bowed with the faintest smile. "I shall see to it, my lord. The kitchens will be… honored."
Seraphine smiled faintly. "We've never received such glowing praise from a guest. Certainly not before noon."
Aldrich chuckled wearily, idly toying with his spoon. "Given everything, I suppose we're due for a miracle or two."
Callum finally turned back to his plate, though his eyes lingered on Freya a moment longer—studying her, as though trying to solve a riddle with too many missing pieces.
Maybe it was the way she sat now—composed, regal, almost fragile. And yet every bite she took crackled with reverence, like a soul relearning what it meant to be alive.
Freya reached for another slice of bread, this time layering it with both jam and cheese. She took a bite. Still perfect.
"I take it you approve?" Seraphine asked, her tone light.
Freya nodded. "You'd be surprised how many things you miss when you're…" She trailed off, licking her fingers clean. "...between worlds."
Seraphine raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Aldrich cleared his throat again—firmer, this time. "Well. Now that we're all here, and somewhat nourished... perhaps it's time we spoke plainly."
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, fingers steepled like a man bracing for bad news—or delivering it.
"I'd like to know what exactly happened last night."
A silence settled briefly over the room.
Callum looked to Freya.
She continued chewing with maddening calm, then dabbed her lips with a napkin before answering.
"First of all," she said, "those kidnappers? Dead. Both of them."
She paused to lift her teacup, gave the steam a curious sniff, and sipped.
"Hmm… is this Earl Grey?"
Then, as if reciting the weather: "They were elves. We didn't exchange names—too busy killing each other. So no, I've no idea who they were."
"But one of the elves said something about your son is special, said he reeked like magic, tasted like magic. They kidnapped him for money, or as a bargaining chip."
Aldrich's expression twisted.
"Oh, and one more thing you should probably know," Freya said, brushing crumbs from her skirt. "There's a tunnel beneath The Rusted Sigil. Leads straight out to a wheat field on the edge of town."
She paused, then added with a lilt of mischief, "Maybe your son mentioned it?"
Aldrich raised an eyebrow, frowning. "No. He didn't. He's still… quite shaken. His chambermaid said he hasn't closed his eyes all night. Just lies there, staring at the ceiling. Like he's too afraid to fall asleep."
Freya blinked, genuinely taken aback. A flicker of guilt crossed her expression.
Poor kid. He really thinks Grant's gonna crawl out of the shadows and snatch him in his sleep.
She sighed inwardly.
Maybe I overdid it alittle.
"Well, after the ground collapsed last night…" Freya began, setting her teacup down with a soft clink, "I landed in a stone chamber. That's where I found the elves—one of them had a dagger to Gale's throat."
She reached for another pastry, fingers delicately pulling it apart. Golden flakes crumbled like brittle leaves onto her plate.
"I managed to distract them long enough to grab him, and we ran."
Her voice remained even, almost too calm.
"I tried to follow your scent—you and Callum. But the tunnels twisted. Took us somewhere else."
She frowned slightly. "An old cavern system. Labyrinthine. Dead quiet. Except for the ones hunting us."
She glanced at Aldrich.
"They followed. I kept running. Eventually, I found an exit—came out in a wheat field, just beyond the edge of town."
Her gaze flicked briefly to Aldrich.
"They caught up to us near the town entrance. "
A beat.
"And that's where it ended."
A pause.
Aldrich's fingers tightened around his spoon. His expression darkened, unreadable.
Seraphine didn't speak—her hand rose halfway to her lips, then hovered there, uncertain. as if replaying the danger in her mind.
Sebastian, ever composed, made no comment—merely adjusted his monocle and silently refreshed the teapot.
"Both dead?" Aldrich asked, voice low.
Freya nodded. "With help."
Callum's tone was cautious. "Sir Grant?"
Freya gave a faint smile. "Sir Grant."
The chandelier flickered. Or maybe the light simply shifted.
In that moment, the girl at the table seemed quite human. Quite safe.
Freya took another bite. Chewed slowly.
And said nothing more.
Aldrich let out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing by degrees. He looked at Callum, Seraphine, and lastly, at Freya.
"You have our gratitude," he said, voice lower now, steadier. "Whoever you are, wherever you're from… you saved my son."
He stood, smoothing out the front of his waistcoat, "And I believed we haven't properly introduce ourselves."
"I," Aldrich continued, placing a hand lightly on his chest, "am Count Aldrich Hancock, from the house Hancock. Mayor of Krasvale."
He gestured toward the woman beside him." I believe you already met the love of my life."
"Lady Seraphine, my wife, my advisor and, more often than not, the voice of reason in this house."
Seraphine inclined her head with quiet grace. "Always a pleasure, my love."
"I would know the name of the girl who crawled out of the underworld, slew two elves, and still found time to praise my kitchen staff."
Freya glanced at him over the rim of her teacup. The barest twitch of amusement pulled at her lips.
She set the cup down and stood, smoothing the folds of her dress with practiced elegance. Her crimson eyes caught the chandelier light and turned it to blood and fire.
"Freya," she said, with a curtsy as theatrical as it was unnecessary, "Freya Constantin."
She straightened, letting the name settle like dust on an old grave.
"And I suppose," she added with a wicked little smile, "you could say I'm just 'passing through.'"
Aldrich blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and intrigue.
Seraphine raised a single brow, lips curving ever so slightly.
Callum's mouth twitched, he knew exactly what she was implying.
The chandelier swayed gently overhead.
And for the first time since Freya had awoken in that cold, forgotten cavern… it felt like the beginning of something real.
Something alive...