If Ashvale had a scent, Elias decided, it would be damp leaves and half-regret. But today, the town smelled like cinnamon.
That should've been his first warning.
The second was Rhea stopping dead in her tracks mid-rant about why fire-resistant socks were clearly a scam.
She tilted her head. Sniffed. Then turned to him with wide, glowing eyes.
"You smell that?"
He didn't even have time to answer before she grabbed his sleeve and pulled.
"Rhea—potion ingredients! We're on a mission!"
"We can mission later. Something divine is baking."
They skidded to a stop outside a new storefront: Auntie Grumm's Hearth & Crust. The windowpane was fogged from the warmth inside, but through the haze, trays of golden bread and sugar-glazed pastries beckoned like sirens. The wooden sign creaked overhead, enchanted with a charm that sang softly, "Where bread meets soul, and butter reigns whole."
Elias blinked. "...That's unnecessarily poetic."
Rhea didn't answer. She was already inside.
The warmth hit them like a blanket. Rhea's expression melted instantly. She leaned into the scent, practically vibrating.
Behind the counter stood a stout dwarven woman with powerful arms and a white apron stained with years of battle against dough. Her face lit up as Rhea approached the counter, nose twitching like a feral pastry-seeker.
"Well now," the dwarf chuckled. "You've got the hunger in your eyes."
"She's always like this," Elias muttered. "We fed her breakfast."
"Lies," Rhea whispered. "Dry toast is not food. It's punishment in crust form."
Elias rolled his eyes. "We're only here for five minutes."
"Make it ten," the baker said, sliding a warm sample bun onto a napkin. "On the house. She's adorable."
Rhea took it like it was a royal offering. She sniffed. Bit. Her pupils dilated.
"Oh gods," she murmured. "It's like eating a memory."
The baker beamed. "That's soulbread, little one."
"Soulbread?" Elias echoed. "You just name bread that makes people nostalgic?"
"Nope. Soulbread is baked with a shimmer of remembrance magic. A touch of joy. A dash of grief. Whatever you carry, it brings it out."
Elias frowned. "That sounds…dangerous."
Rhea was already on her second bite. "Deliciously dangerous."
A nearby customer, wiping tears, muttered, "It made me remember my cat... Snuffles..."
Elias blinked. "Okay, let's get one and go."
But Rhea wasn't moving. She was staring at a round, sugary loaf behind the glass labeled Sunfire Buns.
"Those," she whispered. "I need those."
Elias raised a brow. "Why?"
She looked at him with dead seriousness. "They're glowing."
"Pretty sure that's just candied glaze."
"No," she whispered. "They glow in my soul."
Five minutes later, they sat on a bench in the park, each holding a warm bun. Rhea had already demolished one and was halfway through another. Sticky sugar dotted her cheeks.
Elias took a cautious bite of his.
...It was good.
Too good.
"Okay," he admitted. "That's magic."
"Duh," Rhea said through a mouthful of bun. "We should live there."
"You can't live in a bakery."
"Then marry the baker and I'll call her Auntie Grumm."
"I'm not—what?!"
She leaned back, legs swinging. "I think I was born broken," she said softly. "But you… make me soft."
The words hit him like a brick.
He looked over. Her cheeks were flushed—not just from sugar. Her eyes weren't red or golden, just soft and vulnerable.
"Where'd that come from?" he asked gently.
"I don't know," she said. "I just… I feel weird inside. Good-weird. Like I'm not… fire and teeth all the time."
Elias said nothing for a moment. Then he reached out and used a napkin to clean sugar off her face.
"You're not broken, Rhea. You're just… learning how to be something new."
She frowned. "I don't like new. New is scary."
He smiled. "You didn't like soup at first either."
"I still don't!"
"You slurp it like it's your sworn enemy."
She huffed, but the corners of her mouth twitched.
They sat in silence for a bit. Birds chirped. Children ran in the distance. Somewhere, a lute player fumbled a chord and cursed quietly.
Rhea leaned against him, small and warm and sticky.
"I dreamed again last night," she murmured.
He tensed. "The throne dream?"
She nodded. "But it was different this time. The fire didn't come. Just… the chains."
He looked at her, gently brushing a lock of hair from her face. "Do they hurt?"
"No," she said softly. "They just… remind me I used to be someone I don't like."
Elias didn't speak. He just let her lean.
"Do you think," she said after a pause, "the person I was… hated people?"
"Maybe," he said honestly. "But I know the person you are now loves sweetbread."
She cracked a smile. "She does."
"And she's got weird opinions about socks."
"They're a scam!"
He laughed, and so did she. It was a quiet, bubbling sound that seemed to brighten the air around them.
Elias noticed something strange then—when she laughed, her eyes sparkled gold. Not red. Not the angry glow of hellfire, but something gentler. Like starlight.
"Your eyes," he said. "They're golden."
She blinked. "What? Really?"
"They only change when… you're happy."
She looked thoughtful. "Then I want them to stay gold."
He grinned. "That's a good goal."
They stayed until the sun began to dip, and the last of the sweetbread was gone. Rhea tried to pocket the napkin "for science." Elias confiscated it.
Back home, he tucked her in under her ever-growing collection of pillows and plushies. She yawned, already half-asleep.
"Elias?" she murmured.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for today."
He smiled. "Of course."
"And if you do marry Auntie Grumm, I want to be your flower demon."
He blinked. "What?"
But she was already snoring.
Elias chuckled, rubbing his eyes. His contract mark tingled gently on his hand—a soft, pulsing warmth.
She was changing.
So was he.
Maybe that was what healing looked like.
One sweetbun at a time.
To be continued...