For a single… disorienting… heartbeat that stretched into a small eternity, Aamon was back in the cell. Not a memory… but a reality. The scent of sulfur and ancient, weeping rot flooded his senses, so thick he could taste it on his tongue…a metallic tang of blood and spoiled miracles. The immense, suffocating weight of the Abyss pressed down on him… a physical force that made the gentle gravity of the mortal world feel like a forgotten dream. Here, the air itself was a prison.
And then, the touch.
His mother's hand was on his head, a familiar and inescapable anchor. Her long, cold fingers found the sacred… sensitive place just behind the base of his horns. There was no malice in her touch…she just rubbed slow and possessive circles into his skin, a gesture from what felt like an eon ago when her love was the only thing that could soothe the inferno in his fledgling blood. It was the first comfort he had ever known… It remained the deepest chain he had ever worn.
Her voice when it came, was heartbreakingly beautiful. It wove through the oppressive air, a lullaby spun from twilight and longing. The melody was a shroud of dark silk… She did not sing of conquest or thrones… but of stillness. Of the quiet that exists only between two souls who belong to one another, of the peace found in yielding to a will greater than your own. Her words whispered in a tongue that predated stars…
She sang her lullaby to Aamon, her beloved son, for her restless child to finally… come home and rest in the space she had carved for him in the heart of all this darkness. At that moment, he wasn't a demon or a knight. He was her child again, and the most terrifying thing was not her sorrow… but the overwhelming, soul-crushing weight of her love.
"One day you'll grow, and the dark will be kind,
cradles the lost and the broken of mind.
But tonight, you're mine, so sleep without fear…
The world outside? Oh, my love… it's not here."
As Aamon reaches up a blinding light drowns his vision he wakes to the scent of lavender and old wood…. His mother was gone. The throne room was a fading echo. He was lying in a soft downy bed in a small sunlit room with a patch of warm light falling across his chest. For a disorienting second the sheer mundane comfort was more terrifying than any chain.
Then he turned his head to find Ciel laying beside him, rigid. She wasn't sleeping. Her eyes were wide open staring at the rough-hewn beams of the ceiling her hands clenched into fists so tight the black silk of her new gloves strained at the seams. Every line of her body was a bowstring pulled taut. She was not breathing… She was holding her breath like a prisoner waiting for the blow to fall.
The beautiful, monstrous maid outfit looked absurdly out of place against the humble, homespun quilt. Aamon pushed himself up on his elbows. The sheets pooled around his waist.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, friend...Though, I suppose with our recent company that's not entirely out of the question."
Ciel flinched at the sound of his voice, her full-body a spasm she couldn't suppress. Slowly and mechanically she turned her head on the pillow. The fear in her eyes was a live thing sharp and animalistic. It wasn't fear of the room or of him. It was the terror of the profoundly unknown…. Maybe a habit?…
"Ciel is fine, friend… she's just hungry, if its alright?"
Aamon shot up with her words the old bed groaning in protest as he sprang to his knees. He suddenly loomed over her… his demonic form blocking the light and grabbed both her hands. Ciel flinched a sharp involuntary gasp catching in her throat as her muscles tensed for a blow that never came.
"Oh yeah!! We can get some food! I say meat! I did say we could get some. Come on! The queen gave us some coins! The other day."
Oblivious to her terror, his face was alight with excitement. His voice was full of genuine joy. His tail swayed like an eager puppy's as he pulled the white-haired elf from the bed, his grip firm but not cruel just utterly unaware of its imposing nature.
"Yes… friend, She will go… Ciel know a butcher shop we go to."
Ciel stammered, her feet finding the floor as she instinctively tried to placate him to guide the unpredictable force of his will. It was a lie, a desperate bid for a sliver of control in a situation that was moving too fast.
Aamon didn't answer. He was already in motion, bursting out of the door of the inn the queen had provided, tugging his bewildered, traumatized friend behind him into the bustling street.
The sun never truly rose over Varnmoor. Dawn was not a golden spill but a reluctant concession… a grey seep through the perpetual shroud of cloud and smoke that clung to the kingdom's jagged throat. The light that filtered down to the black basalt streets was weak… doing little to banish the deep and possessive shadows that pooled in doorways and clung to the leering mouths of gargoyles. It was a light that revealed without illuminating, exposing the city's grim details in a monochrome of grime and sorrow. In this pallid morning, Varnmoor stirred. It was not the cheerful bustle of a merchant city… but the grim awakening of a fortress on the eve of a siege.
The first sounds were the heavy, rhythmic tread of the Day Inquisitors. Their armour, polished to a menacing sheen… they are etched with warding sigils so potent they made Aamon's nose twitch with a suppressed sneeze. The Inquisitors' eyes only visible through the slits of their great helms, scanned the misty avenues not for life… but for its opposite: the subtle warp of demonic influence. The citizens emerged slowly, their faces pale and pinched… a people bred in the long, cold shadow of a war against the dark. Their every movement was a testament to this conflict. Blacksmiths hammered cold iron into blessed blades, the clangor a jarring counterpoint to the sizzle of Alchemists distilling witch kelp and grave-moss into acrid smelling purgatives… Scribes hunched over doorframes… cobblestones… and the handles of tools… inscribing tiny protective runes against evil. Even a child's wooden toy was not complete without a faint glyph for protection... Nothing here was without purpose, and that purpose was always tied to the Long War.
It was in this city of sharp edges and sharper suspicions that Aamon and Ciel found their purpose for the day: meat.
They approached the shop, nestled in a narrow, damp alley where the tall… leaning buildings blotted out the weak grey light. A shallow, slimy gutter ran down the center of the cobblestones, carrying a trickle of murky… reddish-brown water.
The building itself was a blot on the street… built of slick, dark stone and rotten timber like a decaying tooth. The windows were small and grime caked, but the main feature was a large, recessed stall fronted by rusty iron bars.
"Wow… a meat shop,"
Aamon whispered, his voice full of innocent awe. He could hear the muffled din of voices from within.
"It's loud in there. There must be a lot of people… so it has to be delicious! right, friend?"
Ciel hovered close behind him, her posture tense.
"Ciel doesn't know… she just sees sometimes when working. But it is loud. Ciel doesn't know why."
Her sharp ears twitched, parsing the sounds. It didn't sound like the cheerful noise of a market. It sounded like the low, tense murmur of a barracks before a battle…
The bell above the door gave a single, cheerful ting that was instantly swallowed by a thick, suffocating silence…. Aamon had barely crossed the threshold when every conversation died. Every eye in the room pried into him… hard, assessing gazes from faces carved by violence and hardship. A grizzled man with a scar bisecting his lip paused mid sip of his drink. A hulking figure sharpening a cleaver on a whetstone stilled his arm… the grating sound cutting off abruptly.
In the corner, a sharp-dressed woman with eyes like chips of flint… slowly lowered a deck of cards. Her hand drifted toward her back. As soon as Aamon took another step, she moved. In a blur of motion, she was before him, not with a dagger… but with the massive hilt of a purple-steel greatsword, which she shoved hard against his chest to halt his progress.
She looked like a shoddy noble in a gaudy orange and black dress, all tattered ruffles and cheap showmanship… a stark contrast to the room's grim practicality. Yet her hair was black as polished obsidian, coiled in a severe and perfect crown braid… a silent, defiant claim to a grace the rest of her appearance desperately lacked.
"You!"
she spat, her voice a venomous hiss.
"Filthy demon. You're here now, too? Can't get enough, having our queen pardon you? Mark my words, that damn succubus will devour you to the bone!"
"Sephidra! Leave him be."
The command came from behind the bar. A stout man with a cleaver scar on his forearm and a surprisingly pragmatic face wiped his hands on a rag.
"I recognize that stray behind him. She would stare at the meat in the front window for hours. Never had a coin to her name."
Sephidra let out a loud… derisive scoff that made Ciel flinch back a step. Her eyes, blazing with contempt, swept over both of them. With a fluid, practiced flick of her wrist, she sheathed the greatsword on her back, where it settled next to an identical one… forming a stark X across her back.
"Fine, Rickey," she sneered. "Just do your damn job well and watch what creatures you converse with… This one stinks of the Pit."
She didn't take another second. She shoved past Aamon and Ciel with a dismissive huff, flinging the creaking door open and vanishing into the gloomy alley without a backward glance.
Aamon blinked, straightening his pendent where the sword had pressed. He didn't dwell on her anger… his focus already snapping back to the primary objective. He stepped past the other rough looking patrons, who were now pointedly trying to look busy… and approached the shopkeeper, Rickey. Ciel followed like a shadow.
"Rickey? Hi, I'm Aamon, and this is Ciel. We come for meat! My friend says you sell it here. I have coins from the queen herself,"
he announced brightly, lifting a heavy, jingling pouch.
"Or… well… from who dropped it off to me in her stead."
Rickey's eyebrows shot up. He took the pouch, hefting its considerable weight with a low whistle.
"Well, my boy… you have a hefty sum. You can get more than just meat."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble.
"This isn't a butcher shop for you, demon... It's a thieves' guild. We can get you spies, plant things on folks, or the obvious… stealing."
Aamon's eyes widened in genuine confusion. He looked around the room again, seeing the hardened faces, the hidden weapons, the strategic positioning of the patrons in a new… bewildering light.
Ciel, peering from behind him at the pelts on the wall… seemed to shrink further into herself. She hadn't known. She had only seen the meat.
Before either could fully process the revelation… Rickey laughed a sharp, barking sound, and waved a hand.
"Ha~! Don't worry my boy, I've got a hook-up for a… unique client like you. Come, what would you want? We have a fresh rabbit here."
he said, gesturing to a plump, recently skinned carcass hanging from a hook.
"Or are you more of a beef person?"
As the last of the other patrons left, not even pretending to have business elsewhere, Aamon stepped up… as he drew a breath to speak, a flicker of movement caught his eye.
Ciel's long elven ears tipped downwards. She was instinctively extending a slender finger toward the rabbit… a flicker of naked want in her eyes. The gesture was aborted in a heartbeat, her hand snapping back to her side as if scorched... The memory was a physical blow: the sharp crack of her slaver's cane, the searing pain… the absolute prohibition against a mere thing wanting… speaking… being.
The aborted gesture decided it.
"We will take the rabbit!"
Aamon declared, his voice suddenly firm. He turned to Rickey, his ruby eyes earnest.
"My mother loved rabbits."
The simple, innocent statement landed in the tense room with the weight of a stone. Rickey stared, his cynical smirk faltering for a fraction of a second. Ciel flinched… not from fear, but from the sheer…, heartbreaking contrast between the mother Aamon remembered and the Tyrant the world feared.
Aamon spared no time, upending the pouch of coins onto the counter with a noisy clatter. A small fortune in gold and silver spilled across the scarred wood.
"Do you cook them?"
Aamon asked, looking back at the rabbit with hopeful curiosity.
Rickey barked a laugh, recovering his composure.
"No… we don't cook it here. Does this look like a place we cook shit?"
He expected the strange pair to recoil in embarrassment.
But Aamon's face lit up with sudden understanding.
"Oh! You don't cook it here... That makes sense. It is too small… We will take it to cook somewhere else."
He nodded sagely, as if the head of a thieves' guild had just offered a brilliant piece of culinary advice. "Come on, Ciel!"
Before the stunned Rickey could form a real protest, Aamon had already gently taken the rabbit from its hook… handling it with a reverence that was utterly alien in that place. His abandoned fortune glinted on the counter as he turned on his heel and marched out.
Ciel offered a single, frantic, apologetic bow to the speechless guild master before scurrying after her demonic friend… the rabbit held tenderly in his arms like a treasure. They had come for meat, and they had found it, navigating the city's venom with an innocence it did not know how to combat.
Aamon marched through the city with a single minded purpose, the purchased rabbit nestled contentedly in the crook of his arm like a cherished pet… His bone rings clicked together softly with each step, a rhythmic counterpoint to the frantic, muffled beat of Ciel's heart as she hurried to keep up... Her wide, pink sapphire eyes darted ceaselessly… trying to map every potential threat and bizarre wonder in the bustling, overwhelming thoroughfares they navigated. To Aamon it was an exciting adventure… To Ciel, it was a gauntlet.
Their path wove through a living tapestry of the extraordinary and the mundane… a sensory overload that left Ciel's nerves frayed. They passed The Old Man's Tailor… where a wizened gnome stood on a stool, his tongue peeking out in concentration as he meticulously stitched a live glowworm into the hem of a cloak that already shimmered with a faint illusion of shifting constellations. The scent of sulfur and sizzling unfamiliar meats wafted from a stall called Demon Head's Deli, where a bored looking hobgoblin was skewering what looked disturbingly like tiny… roasted drakes on a stick. A moment later, this was washed away by the calming… earthy aroma of exotic herbs drifting from Echidna's Esotearica… its doorway a woven arch of live, slithering vines that parted for customers with a mind of their own.
Ciel flinched as a deep shadow fell over them… She glanced up, her breath catching at the huge gleaming pair of gold scissors, each blade taller than a man… that served as the sign for a hair salon called The Gilded Shears. Her mind… trained for threat assessment, immediately conjured images of what manner, of colossal or armored clientele would require tools of that terrifying size.
She was so utterly distracted by the surreal sight that she nearly collided with Aamon's back as he came to an abrupt halt... He wasn't looking at a shop. He was staring, transfixed at a weathered poster nailed to a rotting post. He tilted his head, an expression one of innocent, uncomprehending curiosity displayed across his face. The poster was a call to arms… emblazoned with a dramatic, fearsome likeness of a man who had a demon looking mask. It spoke of a legendary warrior named Atom the Lord of Mayhem. It specifically… and triumphantly, detailed his accomplishments in hunting down and slaughtering the nine devils that had been left fearless after Abyss was finally caged.
Aamon's gaze, however… skipped over the text detailing his mother's defeat and the subsequent genocide of his kind… His eyes were drawn to the artwork of the grand, scary looking scissors held by a painted figure in the background.
"Wow… Friend, did you know all this was here?"
he breathed, his demonic eyes wide with childlike wonder.
"Like look at those scissors!! Why didn't you say anything about those?"
Before Ciel could form an answer, could even process the horrific significance of the poster he was ignoring… he'd grabbed her hand and was pulling her toward the salon's ornate, gilded entrance… Her whole body seized with a sharp, instinctive rigidity… a conditioned response born from years of being dragged against her will to places that meant pain or punishment. Just as quickly as he locked, she forced her muscles to unclench. This was Aamon… His grip was eager, not cruel; an invitation, not a command.
"Ciel didn't know…. She hasn't been over here before,"
she murmured, her voice barely audible over the chaotic street noise as he tugged her through the door.
"She spent more time in… in bad places…"
The air inside was thick and cloying, saturated with the scent of overly perfumed oils and chemical straighteners… The interior was a display of opulent intimidation: polished dark wood, plush velvet chairs, and floor to ceiling gold mirrors that reflected the strange, out of place pair from every disorienting angle.
Behind a throne like chair… a tall and elegantly severe woman with hair the color of spun gold thread was carefully trimming the ends of a lion demi-human client's silver mane. She moved with the precise, graceful economy of a master artist.
When she looked up to check her work in the mirror, her practiced… placid smile froze and then shattered as her eyes landed on their reflection. Her hands stilled… The well dressed client followed her horrified gaze to the mirror and let out a small… choked gasp… her perfectly composed face crumbling into unmasked disgust.
The stylist's posture went rigid… her lips thinning into a severe, bloodless line. She slowly lowered her shears, placing them on her counter with a deliberate… final click. She didn't reach for a weapon, her disdain was a weapon in itself… sharp and polished, meant to draw blood.
"A demon? And an abyssal elf?"
Her voice was cold and clipped, each word dropping into the sudden silence of the salon like a shard of ice.
"That isn't a duo you expect to see grace a civilized establishment."
Her eyes, like sparks of blue flint, swept over Ciel's beautiful… out of place maid outfit and then over Aamon's suit with the bone rings that declared his heritage.
"You two are going to have a very hard time getting anyone in this city to take you in."
She crossed her arms… a definitive and unmovable barrier.
"Now, I can't help either of you. My craft is for those who appreciate refinement, not… whatever you are. Leave. I won't ever touch an abyssal elf or a demon, even if the queen is allowing your… kind… to stay."
Aamon's previously wagging spiked tail went utterly limp before falling to drag on the spotless floor... His shoulders slumped… His ruby eyes began to shimmer, welling with a hurt so profound and confused it was more devastating than tears… For once, he didn't cry; he just stood there, the weight of the rejection crushing his cheerful curiosity into dust. His hand found Ciel's and gripped it like it was the only lifeline in a suddenly stormy sea.
Ciel flinched… both at the venom in the woman's words, but more with the desperate pressure of Aamon's grip. she didn't fight it… Instead, she took a small step forward, placing herself slightly in front of him, a silent shield against the glares. Her voice, though quiet, was firm.
"Come, friend," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument… She gently pulled him back toward the door, away from the perfumed toxicity.
"Ciel thinks we should leave… back to the inn."
Back to where it was safe. Back to where the smell was not of hatred.
The door to the Hearth's Respite inn swung shut behind them with a solid, wooden thud… sealing out the biting city chill in an instant. For a single, suspended moment… Aamon and Ciel stood motionless on the worn welcome mat of the inn, enveloped by the symphony of profoundly comforting smells of safety, a sensation so new and fragile it still felt like a dream.
The rich, savory scent of roasting meat mingled with the sharp… clean tang of woodsmoke from the fireplace, all underpinned by the unmistakable, heavenly aroma of Betty's famous fresh bread… a scent that seemed to soak into the very timber of the building. It was a perfume of peace… and after a lifetime of sulfur, blood, and cold stone, it was almost intoxicating.
Aamon's ruby eyes widened, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep, audible breath. A soft, delighted sound, almost a purr, escaped him.
"It smells like… like hugs."
he whispered to Ciel, his vocabulary for comfort still limited… yet perfectly sincere.
Ciel said nothing, but her shoulders, which had been tense nearly to her ears against the cold and the perpetual expectation of threat… lowered a fraction. Her sharp elven senses parsed the room not just for comfort, but for danger… The crackle of the fire, the murmur of a few early evening patrons, the clatter of pots from the kitchen… it was all cataloged, assessed, and deemed, for now, safe.
Her gaze swept over the familiar common room: the mismatched chairs, the scarred tables polished smooth by generations of use… the holly branches hung in preparation for the winter festival. This was their sanctuary, however temporary…
Behind the polished bar, Betty… the owner, the anchor, the heart of the Respite… looked up from her ledger. Her stout, capable frame was a familiar and reassuring silhouette. Her eyes, the colour of rich earth and just as kind, scanned the room out of habit and instantly found the pair in the doorway. A warm, crinkling smile spread across her face. She closed her ledger with a definitive thump and wiped her hands on her flour dusted apron, already moving around the bar toward them.
"There you are! I was starting to wonder if the city had decided to keep you two."
she said, her voice a gentle, rolling warmth that reminded Ciel of the hearth's embers. She came to a stop before them, her eyes missing nothing… She reached out with a familiarity that still made Aamon blink in surprise; she didn't wait for an invitation. She simply began gently brushing a dusting of dried mud and a stray twig from his shoulder.
"Back from the city, were you?"
Betty asked, her kind eyes missing nothing as she took in the faint layer of grime from the streets and the weary set of Ciel's shoulders…
"Oh, a good sized one! Plump thing. Well done, my dears… Bring it here to the kitchen. I'll stew it with some thyme and roots from the cellar. It'll put some color on your cheeks, and the broth will ward off the city's chill."
Aamon beamed under the praise, holding up the rabbit they bought. His bone-ringed fingers, which could look so fearsome to outsiders… held the animal with a strange gentleness.
"We found it in a shop, Betty! It was in a very loud place with lots of serious people... A nice man named Rickey helped us."
He relayed the information with earnest pride, carefully editing out the drawn swords and venomous nobles… focusing only on the successful completion of their mission.
"He had many of them, but we chose this one."
Betty's expression softened further, a deep, genuine care shining in her eyes as she looked between them. She saw the faint weariness in the set of Ciel's jaw, the way Aamon's wings drooped just slightly with fatigue.
"You both work too hard."
Betty chided gently, but there was no real scolding in it, only affection.
"Supper will be ready soon. Go on, get warmed up by the fire. I'll have this prepared and in the pot before you can count to ten."
She reached to take the rabbit, her eyes caught on Aamon's bone rings. A shadow of something unreadable… not fear… a deep, sorrowful understanding flickered in her gaze for a heartbeat. She knew their story, or pieces of it. She knew the rings were all he had left of his mother... Her hand covered his for just a moment, a silent gesture of empathy, before she took the rabbit.
"Go on,"
Betty repeated, her voice even softer. She shooed them gently further into the room before turning back toward her kitchen, already muttering to herself about stew pots.. carrots, and the need for a pinch of pepper.
Aamon, buoyed by her praise and the promise of stew, practically bounded toward the large hearth, his spiked tail giving a happy little sway.
Ciel followed at a more sedate pace, her eyes still scanning... She chose two chairs slightly away from the other patrons, one positioned so she could watch the door and the staircase.
Just as Aamon was about to sink into the welcoming embrace of a worn armchair, a sudden chorus of high pitched whispers erupted from behind a large woodpile next to the fireplace.
"He did! I saw his tail wiggle!"
"It did not wiggle, it swished! There's a difference, Millow!"
"Doesn't matter! He looks happy! Do you think he'll show us his wings again?"
Three small heads, one with messy dark red hair and two with fiery red, popped up from behind the logs… Three pairs of wide, curious eyes… their pupils vertical slits even in the warm light, stared unblinkingly at Aamon. Two pairs of fire red cat ears and one pair of dark tabby red ones twitched with excitement atop their heads.
From behind them, three little tails… long fluffy fire plumes, swished and flicked in unison.
The triplets, no older than seven years old, were Betty's youngest and most mischievous permanent residents… Marlow, the boy with the tabby ears and an insatiable curiosity, and his sisters, Millow and Willow, the identical fiery red headed girls who often finished each other's sentences, had appointed themselves Aamon's chief admirers.
Aamon's face lit up with immediate, unreserved joy… He dropped to his knees to be closer to their level, his large wings folding neatly against his back.
"Hello, Marlow, Millow, Willow! Were you hiding?"
"We're practicing our ambush skills!" Marlow declared, puffing out his small chest. His tabby tail gave a proud jerk.
"For the mice." Millow added, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.
"But they're very sneaky mice." Willow finished, nodding so vigorously her fiery ears wobbled.
Ciel watched the interaction from her chair, a complex emotion stirring in her chest. It was not quite peace, but something adjacent to it… a fragile sense of normality. She saw the absolute trust in the kittens' eyes... They didn't see a demon or a son of the tyrant... They saw Aamon, who had leathery wings they loved to pretend to groom with their clumsy fingers, who spoke to them with endless patience, and who never… ever laughed at their questions.
"Did you really predict the rabbit's pattern?" Marlow asked, his slit-eyed gaze full of awe. "That's so wizardly!"
"Was it very fast? Faster than us?" Millow chirped, already crouching as if ready to race a ghostly rabbit across the inn's flagstones.
"Will Betty put the carrots on the side? I don't like it when they get all stewy." Willow asked, her small nose wrinkling.
"It was very fast. But you three are faster, I think. I didn't actually catch it, I bought it!."
Aamon answered each question with grave seriousness. He glanced back at Ciel, including her in the conversation… the three sets of slit eyes turned to her with identical expressions of reverence.
Ciel, who had spent years building walls of silence and observation, found herself the subject of their unwavering attention… She gave a single, slow nod, a gesture that felt clumsy to her but which the kittens accepted as supreme wisdom.
"Will you tell us a story? A story about the… the place with the shiny crystals?" Marlow begged, scrambling out from behind the woodpile to cling to Aamon's leg.
"Oh, yes! Yes!" Millow says, following her brother.
"We like that story!" Willow adds before reluctantly following.
"The enchanted forest where the great wolf lives?"
Aamon's voice is neutral. To him, it was just a story his mother would tell... To the kittens, it was a fantastical, exciting place of adventure.
They all nodded eagerly hearing his words, their tails forming hopeful question marks behind them.
Aamon looked to Ciel… he knows he shouldn't tell a story from his mother knowing what she is, especially not to the kittens.
Ciel held Aamon's gaze for a long moment before his smile returned. He settled himself cross-legged on the rug in front of the fire… the three kittens instantly piled into his lap and leaned against his wings, in a tangle of limbs and twitching tails. He began to speak… his voice dropping into a storytelling cadence.
"Long ago, in the deepest, darkest caves where the sun never goes… there grows a forest of crystals that weep glowing tears…"
Ciel watched them. She watched the firelight play on Aamon's horns and the kittens' fuzzy ears. She can hear Betty humming off-key in the kitchen… her steady rhythm of a knife chopping herbs for the stew.
The smells of roasting meat, woodsmoke, and baking bread wrapped around them. Aamon's voice, the kittens' giggles, the crackle of the fire… it was all a symphony. It was the smell of hugs. It was the sound of safety. For the first time that day, Ciel allowed herself to believe, just for a moment… that the quiet door of the Hearth's Respite might truly be one they could trust. She leaned back in her chair, her eyes still open… still watchful… but the line of her shoulders softened just a little more. They were home….