Raven and Mary stepped out of Lilia’s tower, leaving behind its cozy warmth. The corridor beyond was much like the rest of the fortress—polished stone walls lined with torches, their flickering flames casting long shadows across the sturdy, dark-stained wooden floors. Their footsteps echoed faintly, but the distant murmur of voices ahead soon swallowed the sound.

  As they walked, the air grew richer with the scent of food—a hearty blend of roasted meats, simmering stews, and the unmistakable warmth of freshly baked bread. With each step, the aroma deepened, wrapping around Raven like an invisible embrace.

  Turning a corner, they arrived at the mess hall’s entrance—two great wooden doors propped open, revealing a space bustling with warmth, light, and life.

  Inside, the hall stretched broad and high, its vaulted ceiling supported by thick wooden beams. Banners adorned the stone walls, each bearing a white kite shield emblem—one marked with a hammer, the other with a wolf.

  Long wooden tables filled the room, sturdy chairs lining either side. Knights sat in clusters, some still clad in their mail, others more relaxed in tunics, their voices a mix of casual chatter and hearty laughter. Near a raised hearth, a group stood with tankards in hand, their shadows flickering as the fire crackled.

  Mary led Raven toward the far end of the room, but midway, she hesitated. A brief pause—then she subtly changed course, guiding him toward the closer tables instead.

  Raven frowned. Something just changed.

  "Is something wrong?" he asked.

  Mary gave a small smile, but her voice was careful. "If we sit at the commanders’ tables, some might see it as a statement. Best to keep things simple for now."

  Raven glanced toward the far end of the hall—where a few knights sat apart, their posture more composed, their armor polished just a little brighter. He understood her meaning.

  Instead, they joined the line at a long serving table set against the wall, where an impressive feast awaited.

  Knights helped themselves from great iron pots and wooden trays, filling their plates with hearty portions. Thick beef stew, rich with root vegetables, sent up fragrant steam. Roast chicken glistened, its golden skin crisp, while buttery mashed potatoes sat in generous mounds beside it. A dish of pasta, tossed with crisped bacon, was disappearing quickly. Crusty bread, perfect for tearing and dipping, rounded out the meal.

  Against the wall, great wooden casks stood ready, offering dark ale, golden mead, and cool blueberry-infused water.

  As Raven approached the food-laden tables, he hesitated. The sheer abundance before him was overwhelming. He had never seen so much food in one place—at least, not that he remembered.

  His fingers twitched at his side. Where should he even start? The stew? The bread? The roast? The choice paralyzed him. His stomach twisted—not just from hunger, but from something else, something nameless and distant.

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  Mary, already filling her plate, caught his hesitation. With an amused but knowing smile, she nudged an empty plate toward him.

  Slowly, almost cautiously, he reached out. A ladle of beef stew, a slice of roast chicken, a small loaf of crusty bread. He kept his portions reasonable, yet as he held the full plate in his hands, it felt strangely... heavy.

  They found an empty space at one of the long tables. The knights around them were engaged in conversation, the steady clinking of tankards filling the air. Raven sat, picking up his wooden spoon.

  He hovered for a moment. Then he took a bite.

  The rich, savory warmth flooded his senses. The flavors—deep, comforting, real—unraveled something inside him. It wasn’t just food. It was warmth. Safety. Something he hadn’t felt in so long, he’d nearly forgotten it existed.

  A strange tightness formed in his chest. His throat constricted. Before he could stop it, a single tear slipped down his cheek.

  Mary’s voice was gentle. "Is everything alright?"

  Raven blinked, startled by his own reaction. "Yes, yes, I... I don’t know what happened."

  "Take your time," she said simply.

  So he did. Spoonful after spoonful, bite after bite, he ate. Chicken, stew, bread—each filling something far deeper than just his stomach.

  By the time they finished their meal and washed it down with blueberry water, The mess hall’s warmth wrapped around them like a heavy cloak. Raven leaned back slightly, feeling full in a way that went beyond just food.

  After a moment, he spoke. "Now that I think about it... Lilia mentioned Aira isn’t here?"

  Mary nodded. "Oh, right. She went into the wilds to investigate something."

  Shadebinder’s voice echoed in their mind.

  Is she looking for the crash site? I mentioned the derailed carrier to her.

  Mary considered that. "That might be what she’s after."

  Raven frowned. "Will she be alright?"

  "Of course. She didn’t go alone—she took a squad with her." But after a beat, Mary’s expression softened. "Still... she’s been gone for a few days now. I hope she returns soon."

  A brief silence settled between them before Shadebinder stirred again.

  Lilia also mentioned someone named Cedric—a reason worth braving the cold. Who was she talking about?

  Mary’s eyes brightened with pride. "That would be our Highlord, Cedric Wintermane. Warden of the North."

  Raven raised a brow. "And he’s also absent?"

  "Last I heard, he’s in Crestwater, dealing with a missing shipment of Ironwood."

  Shadebinder hummed.

  Then who’s in charge?

  Mary thought for a moment. "I think Commander Riley is next in line after the Highlord. I don’t keep up with military rankings."

  Raven tilted his head. "Not Aira?"

  Mary raised a brow, amused. "Aira? She’s good, but she’s only been a Commander for, what, a year and a half? Maybe two? That’s hardly enough time to be next in line for the entire fortress."

  Raven rubbed the back of his neck. "Right… makes sense." Then, eager to change the subject, he asked, "Anyway, you mentioned Ironwood. What is that?"

  Mary smiled. "It’s a tree from the northern wilds—sturdy, light, and it doesn’t easily catch fire. We use it for building."

  Raven frowned slightly. "How do the woodcutters avoid Bearwolves?"

  Mary gave him a knowing look. "They don’t. That’s why it’s a prestigious and well-paid job—and, of course, it’s protected by knight patrols."

  Silence settled between them again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The hall buzzed with conversation around them, knights still eating, drinking, and laughing by the fire.

  Eventually, Mary turned to him. "Are you tired? Want me to show you to your room? Or do you feel like sightseeing first?"

  Raven hesitated, a flicker of memory surfacing. "Now that I think about it... there was something strange I saw when I was feverish."

  "Oh?" Mary leaned in slightly.

  "A weird wolf—with wings and a bird’s head."

  Mary’s lips quirked up in amusement. "You mean a Stormclaw?"

  Raven blinked. "I... guess so?"

  Her smile widened. "Want to see them?"

  A small spark of curiosity lit in his chest. "Yeah, that sounds like fun."

  With that, they placed their empty trays and plates on the return counter before heading out of the hall, making their way toward the tower where the Stormclaws slept.