As Vaspera watched Ren slip into the kitchen, the bag of ingredients still clutched in his hand. Something in the way he moved — stiff, distant, almost hollow — made her brows knit together.
After a moment, she rose from the couch and followed, stopping in the doorway.
Ren was standing in the center of the small kitchen, shoulders slumped, both hands gripping the bag as if he'd forgotten it existed. His head hung low, his eyes shadowed, unfocused — not angry, not tired… but sad.
"Ren…" she called softly.
He didn't move.
She tried again, louder this time. "Ren."
He flinched — almost startled — and jerked his head up. "Huh? What?" His voice cracked slightly, as if she'd pulled him out of a deep, unpleasant thought.
"What are you doing in the kitchen?" Vaspera asked, eyebrows subtly raised.
"Um… making dinner."
"Dinner?" She stepped in and motioned toward the window. "Look outside. Don't you think it's a bit early for that?"
Ren's eyes snapped toward the afternoon light. He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Ah—yeah. Right. That's… that's on me."
Then he took a step toward the hallway. "I'll just… go to my room. Probably need some sleep."
He brushed past her — still clutching the bag.
"Ren," Vaspera stopped him again.
He half turned, twisting only his torso. "What?"
"The bag."
Ren stared at her blankly. "Bag? What bag?"
Vaspera closed her eyes briefly, drawing in a quiet breath, as though pushing back the urge to lecture him, worry curling beneath her stern exterior.
"You are still holding it, idiot. Were you planning to take it to bed with you?"
Ren looked down. A flicker of realisation flashed across his face. "Oh. Right. My bad."
He rushed back into the kitchen and set the bag down on the counter — not neatly, just dropped it — before hurrying out again. Vaspera watched every clumsy step until he shut his door.
Something definitely happened.
—
Afternoon dulled into evening, eventually, Ren finally stepped out of his room, still carrying the heaviness from the market's cruel whispers. His thoughts circled the same words over and over, stabbing deeper each time.
He looked around the hall. "Madam vaspera?"
No answer.
She wasn't on the couch. She wasn't by the dining table.
She must be in her room.
Ren headed toward the kitchen, intending to at least start preparing something—anything—to distract himself.
But the moment he crossed the threshold, he froze.
The kitchen looked like a battlefield.
Tomato skins were scattered across the floor. A half-crushed onion lay abandoned near the sink. A pot of boiling water had bubbled over, leaving a cloudy trail across the emberstone hearth. A knife was stuck upright in a cutting board like someone had stabbed it in frustration. And flour—gods, where had the flour even come from?—dusted the counter like a thin snowfall.
And in the middle of this disaster stood Vaspera.
Her usually flawless hair was falling out of its braid, one loose strand stuck to her cheek. She was gripping a tomato in one hand and a knife in the other, staring at both as if they were conspiring against her.
Ren swallowed a laugh. "Ma…dam Vaspera?"
She looked up sharply, blinking as though dragged out of a distant thought. "Huh?"
The sudden movement sent a half-cut tomato rolling off the counter, landing with a soft plop on the floor. The Emberstone's faint glow flickered across her tired face, revealing just how drained she really was beneath her usual composure.
---