Osiris crouched in front of the pile of dishes like a man preparing for a sacred ritual he absolutely did not sign up for.
The morning lagoon shimmered in soft turquoise light, the surface moving with calm, magical ripples. Not a single leaf dared fall on it. Not a single fish dared disturb it. It was the type of water that made people whisper blessings.
And Osiris was about to dunk dirty pots into it.
Even the water seemed offended.
He exhaled heavily through his nose, lifting the nearest pot — a clay one Isabella had used to cook for him the previous night. It still smelled faintly of herbs, meat, and humiliation.
Behind him, Isabella stood with her arms folded.
Her expression?
A perfect blend of disgust, expectation, irritation, and "I will stab you with a spoon if you annoy me."
Glimora sat right at her feet, fluffy little body upright, watching Osiris with the betrayed judgment of a disappointed toddler.
