Valen let the silence linger a little longer. Just long enough for her to breathe—really breathe.
Then, in a quiet voice that didn't quite match the usual bluntness in his tone, he said, "Eat your fruit."
Ophelia blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift.
Valen reached to his side without waiting for her to respond, picking up the still-steaming bowl of soup he had brought in earlier. He offered it gently, holding the rim with one hand and a carved spoon in the other. The scent of herbs and wild root filled the small space between them.
"And this too," he added.
Ophelia stared at the bowl, then at him. "I'm not that hungry…"
He raised a brow. "That's too bad."
A ghost of a smile flickered on her lips.
She hesitated, but Valen stayed steady, waiting. Present.
With a small sigh, she finally shifted and accepted the bowl into her lap. She scooped a spoonful slowly, still a little dazed from their earlier conversation, and lifted it to her lips.
