Florian stared down at the food.
The honey bread looked exactly the way it always did, even though it had been prepared by a different kitchen, by hands that were not familiar to him.
Soft. Warm. Sweet.
Everything about it was inviting.
His eyes told him it was perfect.
The soup beside it shimmered gently, steam rising in slow, delicate curls that carried the faint floral scent of frumpkin flowers.
So why did his stomach twist tighter the longer he looked at it?
'I don't understand,' Florian thought, his brows knitting together. 'I've eaten this so many times before.'
He had grown up with this food.
He knew it.
Trusted it.
Carefully, he lifted the spoon. The metal felt heavier than it should have as he dipped it into the soup and brought up a small amount.
Just that simple motion made his throat tighten.
Then the scent hit him properly.
Not rotten.
Not sour.
Nothing that should have raised alarm.
And yet.
It was just… wrong.
His hand froze halfway to his mouth.
