The sun was getting low behind the trees, turning the windows of Havenwood a warm copper and gold. Woodsmoke drifted through the air, mixed with the smell of boiling oats and drying lavender.
Philia stood near the long kitchen counter, carefully measuring out dry tea leaves into a heavy stoneware pot. His sleeves were rolled up past his forearms, revealing slender wrists that moved with the confidence of someone used to doing this every day. He looked completely at home here, bathed in the warm, fading light of the afternoon, far removed from the grand marble corridors and suffocating silences of the capital.
Nora wiped down the wooden table with a damp rag. She let out a long, contented sigh as she watched two young boys in the courtyard outside scramble to finish their game of tag before dusk settled.
