CHAPTER 154: MORNING OF FEELING

Dylan followed the young woman down the stairs, his body still numb.

He yawned loudly, hand over his mouth, as if apologizing for the fatigue clinging to his skin.

The steps creaked beneath his bare feet. His sleep-damp eyes lingered on the slender figure walking ahead. She moved with a calm gait, still wearing that same detached air — as if nothing in the world was worth paying attention to, not even the morning.

But today, her uniform was clean. The dust was gone, the folds somewhat ironed out. Even her bun seemed better pinned, as if the night had returned her a sliver of dignity.

"She’s beautiful," he thought, the idea appearing suddenly, with no warning or analysis.

Not a striking beauty, the kind that announces itself and screams for attention — nothing that could rival the court’s noblewomen or the overly painted tavern girls.

No.

It was a kind of weary elegance. A quiet beauty, worn by labor, but undeniable.

Something in the resigned grace of her gestures, in the straight, proud line of her spine despite the evident fatigue, in the way she descended each step like someone facing yet another long day — another weight added to the pile.

A beauty that asked for nothing, that simply existed — tired, human, and deeply moving in its stubborn simplicity.

He followed her to the ground floor, where a different smell hung in the air. Less of dead dust, more of wood smoke, fresh grease, and the vague scent of thick, hot soup that tickled pleasantly at his empty senses.

The inn seemed less empty than the night before, though still strangely silent. A few solitary patrons sat at tables, drinking something warm from thick clay mugs, their gazes lost somewhere in the distance.

Faces hollowed by time.

Rough clothes.

People just passing through, like them — or Martissant locals, closed off, tight-lipped.

The young woman said nothing. She led him to a large, half-empty table, its dark wood battered by years of impatient elbows and careless knives. Then, without a word or glance, she walked away.

Dylan sat down, the wood creaking beneath his weight, and slumped into the chair’s back like someone surrendering to a truth too heavy to resist.

His eyes wandered across the room, catching details in fragments: yellowed walls, threadbare curtains, sluggish flies circling near a lamp.

And above all, the faces.

All these people, frozen in some resigned kind of waiting. There was something cold in the room — not in temperature, but in atmosphere, as if everyone was holding their breath without realizing it. Even the spoons striking bowls seemed hesitant.

The kitchen door banged open, and the smell grew stronger.

Moments later, the redhead reappeared, a steaming bowl in her hands.

She placed it in front of him without a word, without even a glance. The steam rose gently, momentarily veiling her fingers.

Dylan looked down at his bowl.

It was a thick soup, vaguely green, with unidentifiable chunks floating near the surface — vegetables? roots? forgotten hopes? Hard to tell.

But the smell... the smell was honest. Nourishing. Rich without indulgence.

He picked up the spoon — an old, dented piece of metal.

Dipped it into the bowl. Blew. Tasted.

And closed his eyes.

It wasn’t amazing. Not flavorful. Not refined.

But it was hot. Truly hot. And salted just right.

Another small miracle, in its own way.

He ate slowly, silently, letting the warmth slide down his throat, spreading through his empty stomach like a soft fire. He felt his muscles unwind, his jaw unclench.

He could’ve cried, really.

But he didn’t.

He just kept eating, spoonful by spoonful, as if nothing else mattered.

Halfway through, he looked up.

And she was there — the servant — sitting at another table, alone, her chin resting in her palm, staring somewhere between the beams and the void.

And for a brief moment, their eyes met.

A flicker. A thread.

Nothing romantic. Nothing deep.

Just a silent recognition.

A sort of I know.

As if their bodies knew things their mouths weren’t ready to speak.

He blinked.

She looked away.

And the silence returned.

But it wasn’t the same silence as when he’d arrived.

⸻

The footsteps echoed before the silhouettes even appeared in the doorway.

Light, steady, assured. Two presences he could have recognized anywhere.

Maggie walked in first, her hair tied back in a lazy braid that draped over her shoulder. She wore fatigue like a battle medal, with elegance. Her boots were clean — a sign she’d taken the time to wipe them, or maybe she hadn’t slept much at all.

Élisa followed, more discreet, but no less worn. Her gaze swept the room like an invisible blade, every corner analyzed, every client silently assessed.

Her face was neutral, almost cold, but Dylan could read the shadows in her eyes: she didn’t like this place.

Or maybe... she knew it too well.

They approached without a word.

Maggie pulled out the chair across from him and dropped into it with a loud sigh, arms folded on the table. Élisa sat to his left, straight as a rod, her back to the door.

Dylan flashed them a lazy smile, his spoon still halfway to his mouth.

"Ladies. I hope your dreams were kinder than mine."

Maggie raised an eyebrow at the half-eaten bowl.

"You started without us?"

He shrugged, feigning guilt.

"The soup made a move. I couldn’t say no."

Élisa grabbed one of the spoons on the table, wiped it absently on her coat, and said:

"You look like a cat that’s been washed against its will."

"Thank you. It’s Jonas’ shirt. Has that crushed dignity vibe that suits me, don’t you think?"

Maggie snorted.

"You could wear a curtain and still look like someone hiding something."

Dylan smiled but didn’t reply.

The two women exchanged a quick look — one of those silent communications he’d never dare interrupt.

Then Élisa reached for the bowl of soup the redhead had just placed, quiet as a shadow. No words. No smile. Just sad efficiency.

The silence returned — warmer now. Almost welcoming.

Three people around a table, sharing overly salty soup, shared exhaustion, and the rare luxury of a few minutes without blades, without screams, without threats.

And in that calm, Dylan found himself thinking that mornings like this could exist.

That war, monsters, the memories stuck to their skin... could stay at the door. Just for a while.

He looked at Élisa, then Maggie, and said softly, not really to either of them:

"You know... I think I could get used to this."