The Common Room — Breakfast
The table was covered.
Naro stopped in the doorway, her heavy frame filling the frame, her eyes widening at the sight. Plates lined the wooden surface — more plates than she had set out in years. Eggs, soft and golden, nestled beside strips of meat that glistened with rendered fat. Bread, fresh and steaming, piled in a basket. A bowl of fruit, sliced and arranged with a precision she had never bothered with. And at the center, a pot of something that smelled of herbs and slow-simmered bone.
Viktor stood at the hearth.
He turned as she entered.
His smile was small, polite, entirely composed — the smile of a man who had slept well and woken early and had decided to cook for a woman who had offered him her bed.
"Food is ready," he said.
Naro trembled.
