The morning light was pale and silvery, spilling across the worn stones of the courtyard. A faint chill lingered in the air — the kind that carried the scent of dew and ash. Inside the hall, Mino worked quietly, stirring the pot with steady, deliberate motions. The broth simmered gently, releasing wisps of steam that curled and vanished into the rafters.
She wasn't much of a cook, but Luciel had taught her to make the most of what little they had. Today's breakfast was simple: a thin broth, made from the last scraps of dried meat and a few herbs they'd foraged. When she finished, she wiped her hands on her apron and stepped outside, squinting at the brightness.
In the courtyard, Luciel was already awake. He stood beneath the half-crumbled archway, a saber glinting faintly in his hand as he cut clean slices of wood. Each movement was calm and precise — practiced. Beside him, two smooth wooden boards leaned against a stone.
