The morning was too quiet for the kind of conversation Kael knew he would have. Sunlight streamed through the large windows of the Ainsworth mansion, reflecting off the long wooden table where only two people sat. There was no rush, no excessive noise—just the discreet clinking of cutlery, the steam rising from the coffee cups, and that comfortable silence that only existed between someone who had taught them how to live… and someone who had survived too long.
Kael was slumped in his chair, one leg stretched out, the other bent, his elbow resting on the table as he swirled his spoon in his cup without actually drinking. His gaze was distant, fixed on some nonexistent point ahead. On the other side, Adalric ate with his usual methodical calm, impeccable posture, straight back, neutral expression—the same as someone who had seen too many wars to be impressed by juvenile crises.
After a few minutes of silence, Kael spoke, as if commenting on the weather.
