Meredith.
The moment my inner conversation with Valmora quieted, the door opened softly.
Draven stepped back into the room, his arms were laden with a large wooden tray, and even from where I sat, the aroma drifted toward me—warm, spiced, and achingly familiar.
My lips curved without my permission, already recognizing the scent of roasted moonroot bread and the faint tang of blood-berry wine.
"Here, they are," he announced simply, setting the tray down on the low table before us.
There were skewers of seared dusk-hare, still glistening from their own juices, thick slices of herb-dusted moonroot bread, and small clay jars of the fermented wolf-brew that had once been a rare treat back home.
My stomach tightened with a pang of nostalgia I hadn't expected.
"I thought I'd missed them," I murmured, leaning forward to look. "It's been so long."
