After tidying up the space and sweeping away the dust left by time and absence, Lara moved quietly into the open-air kitchen, sleeves rolled and hair tied back. She had decided to take charge of dinner. The day's hunt had been generous—Alaric's men returned with rabbits, a plump jungle fowl, a dozen fish from fishpond nearby.
Lara set to work with practiced hands, skinning, slicing, seasoning. The scent of crushed herbs and slow-roasting meat soon began to drift through the glade like a soft invitation.
Freya, watching her daughter move with such quiet skill and purpose, felt a tug in her heart. She stepped forward, offering to help—perhaps out of habit, or perhaps to bridge the gap time had placed between them. At first, Lara gently protested, urging her mother to rest and enjoy the mountain's peace. But Freya insisted.
