She swatted his hand, eyes cracking open, bleary. "Ugh, leave me alone," she mumbled, but hauled herself up, swaying like she'd drunk too much cider. "Stars still there?"
"Yeah," Kaelith said, lips twitching. "Still there."
Talren chuckled, a low rumble, and started down the hill, his cloak trailing. Kaelith followed, Lirien stumbling beside him, muttering about how hills were dumb. Her arm brushed his once—warm, quick—and she pulled away, grumbling louder. "You're too slow," she said, rubbing her eyes.
"Says the one half-asleep," he shot back, smirking, but kept pace.
They hit the village edge, cottages dark, the air thick with leftover smoke. Talren stopped at their door, clapping Kaelith's shoulder—firm, brief. "Sleep, lad. Big day's over."
Kaelith nodded, stepping inside, the hearth's warmth wrapping around him. Lirien trudged off toward her place, waving sloppy over her shoulder. He shut the door, spellbook heavy in his hands, and leaned against it. Due soon. Make it right. Talren's words stuck, jagged in his head. He didn't know what they'd do to this—him, Veyra, whatever they'd patched together. Didn't want to know. Not yet.
The night pressed against the shutters, and Kaelith let his breath out slow, ragged. Tomorrow could wait. It had to.
Kaelith trailed Lirien back to the cottage, the grass brushing his bare feet, still damp from the morning dew. The twin suns hung higher now, their light slanting through the oaks, warming the air with a faint bite. His arm stung where her sword had clipped him, a dull throb under the rolled-up sleeve of his tunic, but he didn't rub it—didn't want her gloating more. She strode ahead, practice sword slung over her shoulder, her braid swinging sharp with each step. Her voice floated back, loud and smug. "Told you I'd win. You're soft without your tricks."
He snorted, kicking a pebble into the underbrush. "Barely won. I tripped."
"Tripped, huh?" She glanced over her shoulder, green eyes glinting, her grin all teeth. "Keep telling yourself that. I had you flat—mage or not."
Kaelith's lips twitched, a smirk he couldn't hold back. "Next time," he said, low, letting it hang. She laughed—bright, rough—and shoved the cottage door open with her hip, the hinges creaking loud in the quiet.
Inside, the hearth crackled soft, a low hum under Veyra's voice. She stood by the table, kneading dough, her dark hair tied back with a strip of cloth, flour dusting her hands. "Talren, grab the—" She cut off, glancing up as Lirien barged in, Kaelith behind. Her storm-gray eyes softened, a faint smile tugging her lips. "You two. Up to no good already?"
"Always," Lirien said, dropping the sword against the wall with a clatter. She sniffed the air, loud and shameless. "Smells like bread. Got any left from last night?"
Veyra chuckled, brushing flour off her apron. "In the basket, greedy. Don't eat it all—Kaelith gets some too."
Lirien darted for it, snagging a dark rye loaf, its crust still crisp from the feast. She tore it in half, tossing the bigger chunk to Kaelith without looking. He caught it, the bread warm in his hands, and sank onto a stool by the table. The scent hit him—yeasty, earthy, a thread of caraway—and his stomach growled, loud enough Veyra raised a brow.
"Starving already?" she asked, kneading again, her hands steady in the dough.
"Her fault," Kaelith said, nodding at Lirien. She'd perched on the table's edge, legs swinging, already chewing through her piece. "Made me fight her."
"Made you lose," she corrected, mouth full, crumbs tumbling onto her tunic. She grinned, unapologetic, and Veyra shook her head, a laugh slipping out.
"You're a terror, Lirien," Veyra said, her tone warm but edged with something—tiredness, maybe. Her hands slowed, pressing the dough flat, and her eyes flicked to the window, where the suns climbed steady. "Keep him on his toes, though. Good for him."
Kaelith bit into the bread, the crust cracking under his teeth, the taste sharp and solid. It settled his gut, dulled the ache from the spar, but not the other one—the itch in his gums, faint now, lingering from the fight. Lirien's pulse had thrummed too loud, too close, pinning him in the dirt. He chewed slower, staring at the table's grain, willing it back down. Bread wasn't enough—not really—but it'd do.
Lirien swung her legs harder, kicking the table's leg with a thud. "He's tougher than he looks," she said, swallowing loud. "Still soft, though. Gotta fix that."
He shot her a look—red eyes sharp, hers glinting back. "Not soft," he said, voice low, a flicker of Kazu's old stubbornness bleeding in. "You're just pushy."