Aarav draws breath. Seren hears it coming before he speaks. She does not know the exact words he will say, but she can imagine what he will say. There is clearly something more between them than old friends. Aarav has been on edge the whole way here and Calen has no love for Aarav. What could he possibly say to ease these tensions and get us the help we need.

  It feels wrong.

  She does not know how she knows that. Only that something in Calen’s rigid shoulders, in the way his hands brace against the table, tells her that any words from Aarav would land badly. Like salt in a cut.

  Before Aarav can start the first sentence, Seren steps forward.

  “May I speak.”

  The words leave her mouth before she has fully decided to say them.

  Both men look at her. Aarav’s gaze sharpens, a quiet warning there, puzzled rather than angry. Calen’s eyes remain hard, worn thin by something Seren does not understand.

  She draws a long slow breath. Calm and steady as the heat rises within her.

  The warmth is there, as it always is. Steady. Familiar. A flame she begins to stoke. She reaches for it carefully, the way she was taught, gathering only a little, just the edge of the heat the Soul Fire creates. Lifting it gently into her throat until her voice feels warm like a nice honey tea.

  This is a difficult form of magic, a subtle one. It only lets her calm the tensions in the room. Her words casting out and easing the tightness with each letter. It cannot bend the will of others but it helps people listen with open hearts.

  “My name is Seren,” she says, and keeps her eyes on Calen’s. “We have come because we need help.”

  He does not answer, but the words are soothing him as the magic works.

  “I am being hunted,” she continues, her voice steady though her hands feel cold. “Men in black cloaks. I do not know why. I only know that they mean me harm, and that if they find me, they will not show mercy.”

  She lets the silence sit after that. Feels it soften, just a little. A faint loosening in Calen’s jaw. A breath released that he perhaps does not realise he was holding.

  “I fled with nothing,” Seren says. “No coin. No proof of who I am. I cannot give you a token or a letter to make you trust me. I can only offer my word, because it is all I have left.”

  Her throat tightens, but she keeps going.

  “We need a place to rest. Only for the night. And guidance for the road south. We will not bring trouble to your door. If you cannot help us for Aarav’s sake, then I ask that you consider helping me. Please”

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  Calen studies her face. Searching, perhaps, for lies or tricks or some hidden threat she does not know how to hide even if she wished to. Seren meets his gaze and does not look away. She has nothing else to give him. So she stands there and lets that be enough.

  He asks it very softly. “How do you know him?”

  The words carry more weight than their words suggest. Seren feels it settle in her chest, he does not trust Aarav.

  “He saved me in Marrow,” she says. “He did not have to but when I was cornered, he came to my rescue. Without him, I cannot begin to think of what would have happened to me.”

  Her voice steadies as she continues, drawn along by the memory. “He convinced me of the dangers of the main roads. I listened. That is why I am here and captured or dead somewhere.” She hesitates, then adds, honestly, “He is many things I do not yet understand. But he has not failed me.”

  The heat rises again, as the magic helps her words ring true. Not something that can force someone to believe her, only keep their intent from being clouded by negative emotions.

  Calen looks past her, toward Aarav.

  Whatever passes between them is silent and swift. Seren is unsure what it means. She only feels it cross the room like a cold draft, stirring something unsettled. Their faces harden in different ways.

  “What is it you want,” Calen asks for the third time. Now his eyes are on Aarav.

  Aarav raises his hands, palms open. The gesture is careful, almost formal. When he speaks, his voice is quieter than before.

  “A roof for the night,” he says. “And a way south that does not put her in the hands of people who would hurt her.”

  Calen looks back at Seren.

  The silence stretches. The kettle by the hearth begins to whisper softly as it warms near the coals. The smell of bread drifts up again and her stomach tightens, betraying her with a small, mortifying sound. She presses her lips together and prays it goes unnoticed.

  At last, Calen pulls a chair back from the table.

  He does not offer it to her with any ceremony. He simply moves it, enough to show they are not being sent away.

  “Sit.”

  Seren sits.

  Calen remains standing, hands braced on the back of the other chair. His attention stays fixed on Aarav, sharp and weighing.

  “You will answer my questions," he says. “No jokes. No tricks.”

  Aarav inclines his head. “All right.”

  Calen looks to Seren once more. Something in his expression softens, just slightly.

  “If there are soldiers asking questions in town, I will hear of it by morning,” he says. “You will sleep here tonight. I will decide the rest when the sun is up.”

  Relief hits her so hard her hands shake. Seren grips the edge of the chair until the world steadies again. The heat in her throat eases, slipping back to its familiar resting place in her chest, and her breath rushes out of her all at once.

  “Thank you,” she says, the words quieter than she expects.

  Calen does not answer.

  He turns instead, cuts a heel from the cooling loaf, and sets it on the table with a knife. Then he pours water from a clay jug into two cups and pushes them across the wood toward her and Aarav.

  Only then does he pull out the chair opposite Seren and sit down, the movement heavy and deliberate. There are only two chairs in the kitchen. Aarav remains standing. He leans back against the wall as if this suits him perfectly, as if he would not rather sit at all.