Caelan POV:
Dinner at the packhouse has never been ceremonial, and tonight it remains reassuringly so, its functional rather than formal, shaped by habit rather than hierarchy, a long wooden table worn smooth by years of elbows, mugs, shared meals, and arguments that never quite turned sharp enough to matter.
The air is thick with the comforting weight of roasted meat and herbs, bread cooling on platters set within easy reach, the low overlapping hum of voices that rise and fall without ever demanding silence, because silence here is earned, not imposed.
Elara sits at my right. Not tucked in close as if she needs shelter, not held at arm’s length as if she might disrupt the balance, simply present. Her chair angled slightly toward mine without comment, close enough that I register the q
