The cottage was small — a single room of wood and warmth — yet to Liara, it felt vast. The ceiling beams glowed faintly in the firelight, and the smell of baked bread lingered in the air, heavy with something she hadn't felt in ages: comfort.
She sat near the hearth, wrapped in Aiden's cloak, her bare feet tucked beneath her. The flames danced and hissed, alive in ways she remembered. Once, she had commanded such fire with a whisper. Now, she could only watch, wide-eyed, as if gazing upon a god she no longer knew.
Aiden moved about the kitchen corner, humming softly under his breath. The sound soothed her in a way the celestial choirs never had. His hands, rough from work, broke the small loaf of bread and handed her a piece on a wooden plate.
"Still warm," he said with a faint smile. "Try it before it cools."
Liara hesitated. Bread had never been meant for her kind. Spirits did not eat; they absorbed the light of stars, drank from the essence of creation. But her body now demanded sustenance, cruel and humble. She lifted the piece of bread and took a cautious bite.
It was plain — coarse, unevenly baked — but its warmth spread through her like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Her eyes widened slightly.
"It's… alive," she murmured.
Aiden blinked, then chuckled softly. "I've never heard bread described like that."
She swallowed, frowning as if searching for words. "It burns. But gently."
"That's the warmth," he said, settling across from her. "Means you were colder than you thought."
She looked at him across the fire, her golden eyes glimmering faintly. "You speak of warmth like it's something you own."
He tilted his head. "Maybe it's the one thing I have to give."
That silenced her. For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the logs. Liara stared into the flames, and they seemed to rise higher in her presence, responding to something unseen. The glow reflected in her eyes, turning them into mirrors of distant suns.
Aiden noticed the shift, the faint shimmer beneath her skin — as if the firelight itself had decided to cling to her. He didn't mention it. People had called him strange all his life for the things he noticed: the hum of trees, the whisper of storms before they came. He'd learned not to question wonder when it appeared.
Instead, he said quietly, "The fire's yours to tend if you like. You watch it like an old friend."
Liara's gaze softened. "In a way, it is."
Later that night, after the bread and tea were gone, Aiden went to check on his sister. Liara remained by the hearth, her fingers brushing the torn fabric she kept hidden under her cloak — a scrap of celestial silk, the last remnant of her true form. It shimmered faintly, alive with trapped starlight. When she pressed it to her chest, memories bled through her mind: the silver towers, the Nine Courts of Flame, the betrayal that tore heaven open.
Aiden's voice broke through the haze. "You're trembling. Are you cold?"
She quickly hid the fabric. "No. Just… remembering."
He sat beside her on the floor, careful not to sit too close. "Sometimes memories hurt more than wounds."
She looked at him, puzzled. "You speak like someone who's lost something."
He gave a quiet laugh. "Maybe I have. My father's respect, for one. My family's patience. But I keep what matters."
"Your sister," Liara guessed.
"And my peace," he added. "What little I can make of it."
Liara studied him, sensing no bitterness in his tone. Only quiet acceptance. Among the gods, loss was a tragedy. Among mortals, it was life. How strange, she thought, that such weakness could make them stronger.
The hours deepened, the fire burned low. Rain whispered against the roof again, but softer this time, like a lullaby. Aiden stoked the embers, and the glow painted his face in gold.
Liara turned her head slightly. "You said I'm safe here. Why?"
He paused, meeting her eyes. "Because I've seen enough people in this village turn away from those who need help. I won't be one of them."
She frowned, as if testing the word. "Safe…"
Aiden nodded slowly. "Means you can rest. No one will harm you under my roof."
Liara whispered the word under her breath, like a spell she didn't understand. In her world, safety had always been temporary — an illusion before the knife. But here, wrapped in warmth and bread-scented air, it felt… real.
Something in her chest loosened. For the first time since her fall, she allowed herself to exhale fully.
When Aiden rose to fetch another log, she reached out without thinking, her fingers brushing his sleeve. "Thank you," she said quietly.
He smiled. "You don't have to thank me. It's what anyone should do."
"Not anyone," she said softly. "Only you."
As the night stretched thin, Liara finally drifted to sleep by the fire. Her breathing slowed, steady and human. Aiden watched for a while, the flicker of light painting gold across her hair.
He couldn't name what he felt — not fear, not curiosity, but a kind of reverence. Whoever this girl was, she carried something fragile yet infinite within her. Something that made the air hum faintly when she sighed.
He covered her with a blanket and turned away. "Sleep well, stranger," he murmured.
Outside, the forest listened.
From the dark roots beneath the earth, old spirits stirred. They could feel her — the foreign pulse of divine blood beating against mortal soil. The fox goddess who fell. Their hunger quickened.
But within that small cottage, where bread and firelight ruled, none of it could reach her. Not yet.
For that one fragile night, she was truly safe.