ULRIC KNIGHT
The witch's cottage still hums with the silence she left behind. None of us speak right away. The fire is low, throwing shadows across the floorboards, and the green light seeping through the glass windows makes even the food on the table look like it belongs to another world.
She said to eat, so we eat.
The buns are glazed in something faintly sweet. Steam curls from the clay cups at our elbows, bitter tea laced with herbs I can't name. The smell of it is sharp, grounding and foreign at once.
Elias sits straight-backed in his chair, movements precise. He lifts his cup and takes careful sips. His hands are steady, but his jaw is tight, muscle ticking every few seconds. His eyes stay on the table, never on us.
