The creak of the wooden floor was the only sound echoing through Havenwood Orphanage as the late-evening chill settled over the hills.
In the small, dimly lit kitchen, the sharp smell of boiled roots and bruised sage hung heavy in the air. Philia sat at the battered table, his long fingers wrapped around a chipped mug. Across from him, Nora was wiping down the worn counter with a damp rag, her movements slow, heavy with the quiet exhaustion of someone who had spent thirty years keeping a roof over abandoned heads.
She paused, wringing out the rag into a wooden bucket before leaning back against the counter, her worn eyes settling on Philia.
"You shouldn't be here this long, child," Nora said softly, her voice raspy from the evening chill. "Not that I'm turning you away, you know this place will always be your home, but the palace isn't a place that forgives an empty seat. Isn't the Crown Prince expecting you back?"
