Mikhailis stirred the pot gently, the scent of crushed honeyroot curling through the pre-dawn air. His robe hung loose over one shoulder, the silky fabric brushing lightly against his skin as his still-groggy eyes blinked slowly. The subtle bubbling of the tea filled the quiet room, providing a comforting, rhythmic background noise. It was a familiar ritual, one that grounded him whenever his thoughts began to drift too far into uncertainties and plans.
That gentle tranquility shattered when Rodion's voice suddenly pierced the quiet stillness.
Mikhailis nearly dropped the kettle entirely. His hand froze mid-pour, the thin stream of hot tea barely missing his gloved hand, splashing softly against the tabletop. His eyes widened, heart thudding sharply in surprise as his mind quickly struggled to register Rodion's sudden request.
