The kitchen still smelt of freshly baked bread, chamomile tea, and the faint scent of soot from the brazier that had warmed the night. The air was thick with a sense of normality that, for someone with my existential curriculum vitae, was the strangest and most potent magic of all. With the precision of an alchemist who has grown tired of exploding laboratories due to miscalculations, I took the last frying pan off the heat. On the plate, a small domestic masterpiece: creamy eggs the colour of the pale morning sun, flecked with fine herbs I'd pilfered from Morgana's garden; thick slices of bread, golden in goat's butter; and a small pot of blackberry jam, dark as a secret. Tiny, discreet heat-runes, a magical dialect we had developed together, were carved beneath the serving board, keeping everything at the perfect temperature. A small, stubborn piece of sorcery against the world's entropic chill.
Morgana came into the kitchen, her footsteps silent on the floorboards she had laid herself. Her hair, normally bound in a practical plait, was loose in long, dark waves, in a state of soft morning disarray. Strands fell across her face, slightly tangled from sleep, and she brushed them away with a slow, tired gesture that was intimately familiar to me. The morning light, spilling through the window, seemed to catch in the stray threads, softening the lines of her face and revealing an ancient fatigue she wore as naturally as the chains on her wings. She paused in the doorway, genuine surprise in her violet eyes.
"You... you made this?" She tilted her head, her gaze drifting from the neatly arranged plate to me and back again, as if trying to decipher a particularly well-crafted illusion. "It smells… good. The 'actually good' sort of good. And more importantly, it doesn't smell burnt."
"A shock, I know," I replied, placing the plate in her spot at the table with a restrained flourish. "And without a single explosion, flash of light, or dramatic 'poof'. I know you must be disappointed, but for today, chaos has taken the day off."
A low, rough sound escaped her, something that in other people would have been a full laugh, but in her was like the purr of a sleeping panther. "Relieved. And not just me. I think the chickens in the yard are also grateful for the absence of morning pyrotechnics." She sat down, the movement fluid and full of a contained grace, arranging her dark robes around her. She looked at the plate as one might an arcane artefact, her caution bordering on suspicion.
"No offence," she began, picking up her fork with hesitation, "but after that... soup... I made last week, which basically became a sentient and aggressive entity in the cauldron, anything that doesn't fight back against the cutlery is already a culinary victory."
"None taken," I replied with the solemnity of a diplomat. "That soup wasn't food; it was an opponent. I think I saw it wink at me before it tried to climb out of the pot."
She let out an amused sigh and finally tried the eggs. The effect was immediate and fascinating to watch in real-time. Her shoulders, always tense, dropped half a centimetre. The small frown line between her eyebrows softened. She closed her eyes for an instant and let out a breath, not of weariness, but of permission. Permission to relax her control, if only for a moment.
(I could build an empire on that half-centimetre of peace on her shoulder. Erect temples in honour of that sigh.)
[Analysis: spike in dopamine and serotonin detected in subject 'Morgana' associated with positive stimuli. Common reaction: satisfaction and relaxation. Conclusion: Operation 'Surprise Breakfast' has been a resounding tactical success, exceeding projections.]
(Shut up, Eos. Don't call it an 'operation'. It's… care. A concept your algorithms are still processing.)
"How... how are they so soft?" she asked, genuine curiosity in her voice breaking the moment's spell. "I swear when I try, I end up creating rubber that tastes of sadness and existential regret."
"Low heat," I explained, pushing her favourite mug of tea towards her the one with the small, cracked ceramic wing, a survivor of many late nights studying runes. "Butter without fear. And the secret is to stir as if you're drawing a warding sigil: with patience, intent in your wrist, and the absolute certainty that rushing ruins everything."
"You've stubbornness enough for all three," Morgana remarked, warming her hands on the mug, the steam wreathing her face. She took a sip. "Thank you, my girl."
The words landed softly, a warm, familiar weight that settled in my chest. My girl. An old, dusty memory creaked a door open: cold rain drumming on a thatched roof, strong arms wrapping me against a chest that smelt of earth and blood magic, the sound of an out-of-tune song whispered to ward off a fever. Emotions that didn't belong to this life, to this body, but which resonated deeply with it.
"You didn't have to stay with me," I said suddenly, my voice lower than I'd intended, the vulnerability ambushing me. "In that forest. And afterwards, for the first few months… when I was more of a chore than a person."
Morgana broke off a piece of bread, the movement slow and deliberate. "'Have to' is the wrong phrase. 'Have to' is for mending fences, for harvesting herbs before the frost, for binding what cannot be redeemed." She spread the jam on the bread as one might paint an evening sky. Her eyes met mine over the rim of the mug. "I wanted to. I still do."
(I know. And that's why it still scares me. And anchors me. In a good way.)
[Respiration rate increasing slightly. Probability of a fluffy emotional collapse: 23% and rising. Recommendation: change the subject to a topic of low emotional charge. Suggestion: the ongoing stubbornness of the goats or the mystery of the chicken that steals shiny buttons.]
I took a deep breath, following the unsolicited advice of my internal operating system. "Well, if you want, I can teach you how to make the eggs. I could even write the process on a runic scroll. 'The Arcane Treatise of the Perfect Scramble'. I promise it's less dangerous than a level one containment spell."
"Teach me," Morgana said, and in her voice was the seriousness of someone accepting an important lesson, be it about magic or cooking. "If I learn this, perhaps I can finally retire my infamous 'survival soup', which tastes of well water and despair."
"By all the gods, demons, and shapeless entities of the Void, yes," I replied, getting up to relight the brazier with a controlled spark. "The world, and your stomach, would be grateful."
She joined me, holding the wooden spoon with the same gentle firmness with which she held a runic brush. The lesson was less about cookery and more about philosophy. I showed her how heat, like magic, must be persuaded, not forced. How the right rhythm, the patience, can transform the same ingredients into something entirely different.
"It's like you," I said suddenly, as she stirred the eggs in the pan, her brow furrowed in concentration.
She paused and looked at me. "Like me?"
"Yes. You hold the world like this. With control. Without making a fuss. Persuading it to be a little less awful, instead of burning it to the ground and starting over."
She was silent for a long moment, the only sound the soft sizzle of the eggs. A small, sad smile formed. "Take them off the heat before they look done. The residual warmth finishes the job." She looked at me. "That's a good lesson… for more than just eggs."
When we returned to the table, she tried her own creation and raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed with herself. Then her gaze fixed on me, in that way that was both knife and balm. "You're spoiling me."
"I'm just returning what I can," I replied, refilling her mug. "You fed me, you cleaned me, you taught me to read runes and how not to accidentally set myself on fire. You stayed up when I had a fever and pretended I couldn't hear you singing about fallen stars. You… stayed. I can put up with the occasional soup for that."
Morgana laughed, a low, rough sound that made the entire cottage feel warmer and safer. "Still, thank you for not just surviving, but for learning to care."
"I learnt from the best," I shot back, with a sincerity so naked I had to clothe it in arrogance not to feel exposed. "I blatantly copy you."
"Copy what's good," she warned, pointing lightly with her fork. "As for the rest, like your recent tendency to test levitation spells on the chickens, I will still clip you 'round the ear for it."
"They looked bored!"
"They looked terrified," she corrected, but there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. "And your ear is still on notice." Her gaze dropped to my arm, where a white bandage covered a recent cut from a treacherous branch. "After breakfast, a fresh dressing. And no practising that containment seal with your shoulder injured."
"Yes, ma'am." The phrase came out without a drop of irony. Just affection dressed as obedience.
"What world have you gone to now?" Morgana asked, her voice gentle, noticing the sudden distraction on my face.
"That night," I replied, staring at my own hands on the table. "When you found me. And instead of just seeing a 'thing' with magic, dangerous and unwanted, you decided I would be a 'someone'."
I felt her hand on my hair, the slow, familiar gesture that had become a safe harbour. "You were always a someone, Azra'il. I just stayed nearby to make sure you remembered that on the bad days."
I took a deep breath, feeling her words settle on me like a protective ward. "Thank you… for looking after me."
She smiled, the sort of smile that takes effort not to overflow into something more vulnerable. "You're welcome, my girl."
[File 'Belonging' updated. Risk of existential self-sabotage reduced by 37%. Recommendation: maintain and expand the 'Morning Ritual' with the occasional addition of light desserts.]
Morgana finished her plate, wiping up the last crumbs with her bread. "I would say your culinary assessment has reached S-Class. I'm considering permanently retiring from my kitchen duties."
"Official recognition?" I arched an eyebrow. "Splendid. You can handle the laundry then. Seems a fair and equitable trade."
"Hmm, perhaps I'll reconsider the retirement," she murmured, already getting up with the plates. "Come on. Your dressing."
Sitting on the bench while she cleaned the cut with firm, gentle hands, a comfortable quiet settled between us. It wasn't awkward or tense. It was the silence of people who no longer need to fill every moment with words to prove their existence.
"Promise you'll be more careful when you're exploring near the stream," she said, her voice low, as she applied the new gauze.
"I promise to try to be more careful."
She paused and looked at me. "Azra'il."
"Alright, alright. I promise." And for the first time, the word didn't catch in my throat on its way out.
[Emotional integrity: stable. Observation: the host functions better when allowing herself to be cared for.]
(I know, Eos. I just didn't know that was still allowed.)
After the dressing was done, we tidied the kitchen together. It was our dance. I washed, she dried, her chained wings making a soft, metallic whisper with every movement. Plates stacked, mugs lined up. A ritual that, day by day, solidified the foundation of what we had built.
Outside, Runeterra spun on, indifferent. But in here, for an hour each morning, there were simple, stubborn things like warm bread and silent promises. And the way Morgana looked at me, as if to say "you are safe" without needing any words.
"Morning ritual?" she confirmed, already knowing the answer, a corner of her mouth lifting into a smile.
"Morning ritual," I repeated, firm. And I felt the day, finally, truly begin.