Ah.
The broth was the color of old ivory, pale gold deepening to amber where it caught the light of the hearth. It moved in the bowl like something alive, thick and slow, carrying the hours spent simmering.
You could tell time had been spent, not passed or whiled away, but invested, compound interest accruing in liquid form.
Ah.
Bones that had been roasted until they cracked, marrow that had melted into something that was not quite liquid and not quite solid, existing in that liminal state where physics shrugged and let alchemy take the wheel.
Cecilia lifted the spoon. Steam rose from its surface, carrying with it the scent of ginger and garlic, of scallions that had been added at the very end, because heat is a bully and scallions are delicate, of sesame oil that Oathran had drizzled over the top in a pattern that was almost art.
Or possibly a sigil. With dragons, you never knew.
Ah.
