Her brow arched. "At what?"
"Cooking. Eating. Not stabbing me."
She shook her head slowly, lips twitching. "…Idiot."
But she didn't sound cold anymore. And I didn't feel like correcting her.
We finished the bread, finished the soup, and sat back in our chairs, full in a way that had nothing to do with flavor. My arms still ached, my throat still stung from smoke, but there was a strange satisfaction in knowing we had made this together.
Freya leaned back, hands folded in her lap, gaze drifting toward the stove. Her hair had fallen completely loose, flour still dusting her sleeves. She looked nothing like the noble warrior I first knew—no polished steel, no sharp command in her voice. Just a girl tired and warm from firelight.
I smiled to myself and stretched. "Well, Lady Freya. Not only did we survive the kitchen, we made something edible. Truly, a miracle."
She gave me a sidelong glance, then let out the smallest sigh. "…It was not awful."
