- Elara Voss:
The stew wasn't terrible. A little watery, sure, but after days of surviving on scraps and half-burnt food I cooked myself, it felt like a luxury. The faint taste of herbs clung to my tongue, a hint of something I couldn't quite place, but I ignored it. Food was food.
Across from me, Ronan ate in tense, brooding silence, shoveling food into his mouth like he was doing a chore rather than enjoying a meal. His shoulders were hunched, his expression unreadable, and he looked up only when I spoke—just long enough to glare at me before returning to his plate.
Naturally, I kept talking anyway.
"You know, for someone who just saved my life, you could at least pretend to be in a better mood," I said, swirling my spoon through the broth. "I mean, you get to share a meal with a witch. That has to be on some kind of bucket list, right?"
Ronan didn't look up. "I don't keep lists."
