Early evening settled gently over the Valon mansion, warm lantern light replacing the last traces of daylight that filtered through the tall windows. The world beyond the estate walls continued moving—politics, armies, preparations—but inside the kitchen there was only the quiet rhythm of knives against wood and the low simmer of something cooking steadily over flame.
The contrast was almost disorienting.
Days ago, Noel had been discussing continental alliances and mountain ranges that swallowed expeditions whole. Now he stood at a counter with his sleeves rolled slightly, adjusting the heat beneath a pot while tasting the sauce with a wooden spoon.
He wasn't particularly gifted in magical theory. Selene knew that better than anyone. But in practical matters—measuring, cutting, timing—he was precise. Efficient. Focused in a different way.
