Lightchaser leaned against the doorframe.
"What, bringing this to pay tribute to your master?"
Rita blinked, then raised the glass even higher. Her eyes still sparkled with pure delight as she said, entirely naturally,
"Sure, of course I am. This is the first glass of Wrong Season I ever brewed. It's for you."
She really was a walking contradiction.
In daily life, she valued fair trade and equal exchange, but toward people she truly cared about—friends, mentors—she was incredibly generous.
Lightchaser's steel-blue eyes locked onto the little owlet for a few silent seconds.
Then she took the drink and downed it in one gulp.
It was a strange, nostalgic kind of drink.
It brought back memories Lightchaser didn't want to dwell on, didn't want to face, and certainly didn't want to admit to having.
She tossed the empty glass back to Rita.
"Good drink. Get some sleep."
With that, she closed the door.
But the cold reaction didn't upset Rita at all.
