They didn't speak for some time.
Outside, the world began to stir—birds shifting in the trees, the low rustle of wind in the garden. Somewhere beyond the ridge, a rooster cried half-heartedly against the hush of morning mist. The day would come. But not yet.
Not here.
Alaric had pulled a chair closer to the hearth, and now sat with one leg stretched out, the other bent, arm slung across the backrest. The quiet suited him. Or maybe he'd just grown used to it.
Isolde moved through the cottage like she belonged to it—barefoot, unhurried, her fingers brushing jars and herbs like they were old friends. She didn't rush to speak or explain herself, and somehow that made him trust her more.
He found he liked watching her move.
Not in the way he'd once watched others—with the sharp eye of a soldier assessing threat or escape—but with the wary interest of someone recognizing familiarity before understanding why.
She poured water into a small copper pot and set it over the fire to boil, then paused, glancing back.
"Do you eat eggs?" she asked, voice still soft with sleep.
Alaric blinked.
"I think so," he said.
That pulled a breath of a laugh from her, the first real one. "You think so?"
"I haven't exactly been sitting down for breakfast lately."
"Well," she said, crossing to the small pantry, "you're not wandering now."
He watched the way her fingers brushed over a linen bundle, the way she stood on her toes to reach a jar, and he realized: no one had made him breakfast in a very, very long time.
"You really live here alone?" he asked.
Isolde nodded, lifting a basket of eggs and returning to the hearth. "It's quieter this way."
"Don't you get lonely?"
She cracked an egg into a pan. The sizzle filled the space between them. She laughed quietly to herself, mumbling her thoughts out loud, "Quite the question from the professional wanderer himself."
Before she addressed him with her answer: "Sometimes," she said. "But I've lived with people who made me feel lonelier."
Alaric didn't push. He simply nodded, letting her give only what she was willing. He himself wandered because his family, their home, was so insufferable. The peace of the road was preferable to a gilded cage.
She plated two eggs and slid one toward him. No words. Just that same quiet understanding.
He took it. Their fingers didn't touch this time, though he wished they had. And yet the warmth lingered.
They ate in silence. The sun coming in through the window dancing on the table, celebrating their reunion.
Isolde nudged a bit of yolk across her plate with her fork. Her voice was gentle when she spoke again.
"What about you?"
Alaric glanced up. "What about me?"
"Why do you wander?" she asked, not prying—just wondering. "What are you looking for?"
He held her gaze for a moment, then dropped his eyes to the plate, absently pushing the edge of his egg with the side of his fork. "Peace, I think."
A beat passed.
"And have you found it?" she asked.
He let out a breath, half a laugh. "I found something. I'm just not sure what it is yet."
Isolde tilted her head, studying him. "You speak like someone who's lived a long time with no one to speak to."
"Maybe I have," he said. "Maybe it's easier that way."
"But not better."
He looked at her again—closely this time.
"No," he admitted. "Not better."
She nodded as if she understood something deeper in him than he'd intended to reveal. "Most wolves can't bear solitude for long. But I think the ones who've been broken by people… learn how to be alone. Even if they don't like it."
He considered that.
"You seem less alone than most," he said.
She smiled faintly. "The forest listens. The herbs don't argue. And I can sleep without someone watching to see if I shift in my dreams."
There was something in the way she said it. Quiet. Matter-of-fact. Like it had cost her something she'd never gotten back.
Alaric straightened slightly in his chair, resting his arms on the table.
"Do you still shift in your dreams?" he asked.
She didn't look away. "Sometimes. And sometimes I wake up with tears on my face and no memory of why."
His voice was low. "I know that feeling."
They sat in that shared stillness again, not as strangers, not quite as anything else—but undeniably tethered by something larger than either of them.
And then, with a wry smile playing at the edge of her mouth, Isolde lifted her cup and said, "This is a very heavy conversation for someone who only just remembered they like eggs."
Alaric huffed a laugh, and the sound warmed the space between them.
"Next time I'll bring bread," he said. "We can talk about the weather."
She smirked over the rim of her cup. "Deal."