Percival's POV
The eggs were flawless this morning. Sunny side up with golden yolks that would run perfectly across the plate, just the way I preferred them. The bacon had that ideal crisp without being overdone. Toast buttered to perfection. After decades of marriage, my wife had mastered every detail of my morning routine, from the exact temperature of my coffee to the precise timing of each component.
I sliced into the first egg, watching the rich yolk spill across the white porcelain.
My phone buzzed against the mahogany table.
I deliberately ignored it. Breakfast was sacred territory. The single meal where I could exist without the crushing weight of coven leadership, without calculating political moves or managing supernatural alliances. Just food, caffeine, and the gentle morning light filtering through our kitchen windows.
The device chimed again, more insistently.
