CELESTE’S POV
I had never thought of a kitchen as a battlefield before.
Not the kind with blood and claws, but this—this felt perilously close in its own way.
The clatter of utensils, the hiss of heat, the sharp, watchful glances that slid toward me and then quickly away, all pressed against my nerves in a way that made me wonder if a battlefield wasn’t easier to bear.
I stood there anyway.
Because walking away would have been easier.
And I was done choosing easy.
The knife felt unfamiliar in my hand at first, its weight slightly off, the balance something my fingers didn’t quite trust.
I adjusted my grip, forcing myself to slow down, to pay attention the way I had during Sera’s mind-wandering sessions—deliberate, grounded, present.
“You’re holding it too tight.”
I flinched before I could stop myself, the blade pausing mid-air as I turned toward the voice.
