Elaric pushed open the heavy oak door of the village tavern-restaurant, and a wave of warm air rolled over him—thick with the scents of sizzling bacon fat, fresh-baked rye bread, and the faint, yeasty tang of morning ale. The low murmur of conversation mingled with the crackle of logs in the large stone hearth, and the clatter of wooden spoons against iron pots drifted from the open kitchen hatch. It was early still; only a handful of customers dotted the long tables—an old farmer nursing porridge, two merchants arguing over maps, a sleepy guard with his boots propped up.
He slipped toward his usual corner seat, the one tucked beneath a smoke-stained beam where the light was dimmest. The worn bench creaked under his weight as he sat, the polished wood cool through his trousers. He barely had time to settle before footsteps approached—measured, unhurried, the soft swish of skirts against stockings.
A waitress stopped at his table, order pad in hand. "Morning. What'll it be?"
Elaric glanced up—and froze.
She was in her mid-thirties, perhaps thirty-four, with the kind of ripe, generous beauty that turned heads even on ordinary days. Full breasts strained against the laced bodice of her simple green dress, the fabric hugging a narrow waist before flaring over wide hips and a round, heavy backside that swayed as she shifted her weight. Her skin carried the faint glow of kitchen warmth, cheeks lightly flushed, and loose strands of chestnut hair escaped her practical bun to frame a heart-shaped face. A few freckles dusted the bridge of her nose; her lips were full, naturally pink. She smelled faintly of cinnamon and woodsmoke, overlaid with something softer—lavender soap, maybe.
His mind blanked. Heat flooded his face and lower, the morning's unresolved ache flaring back to life. His gaze dropped helplessly, locking onto the soft rise and fall of her chest with every breath she took. He couldn't look away—staring like a starving man at a feast, mouth slightly parted, thoughts spiraling into vivid, forbidden daydreams he hadn't dared entertain in years.
She waited a beat. Then two. Cleared her throat softly. "Sir?"
Nothing. His eyes stayed fixed, wide and unblinking.
With a quiet sigh that lifted those same curves he couldn't stop staring at, she turned and walked away, hips rolling with natural grace, skirts brushing her calves. The rejection stung like cold water.
Reality slammed back into him. Embarrassment burned hotter than the hearth, scorching his ears crimson. He dropped his gaze to the scarred tabletop, heart hammering. Idiot. Absolute idiot.
Desperate to regain control, he straightened his spine, closed his eyes, and forced his breathing slow—like the monks he'd once read about in his previous life. One sheep… two sheep… three sheep… He counted silently, relentlessly, picturing vast fields of fluffy white creatures leaping endless fences. The tavern noise faded: clinking mugs, distant laughter, the sizzle of fat on the griddle. Four thousand sheep… fifty thousand… a hundred thousand… By the time he reached an absurd mental tally in the millions, the frantic heat had ebbed, leaving only a dull, manageable throb.
He opened his eyes. His face had settled into perfect blankness—a deadpan mask, lips pressed thin, gaze steady and emotionless, the kind of poker face that could stare down a dragon.
He lifted a hand. "Miss?"
She returned, expression carefully neutral—professional duty only. The same warm cinnamon scent wafted ahead of her, but this time he didn't flinch. Didn't glance down. He met her hazel eyes directly, voice calm and even.
"Porridge with honey, three rashers of bacon, brown bread, and a mug of spiced cider, please."
She blinked once—surprised, perhaps, by the sudden composure—then nodded. The quill scratched softly across her pad. "Right away." She turned, skirts whispering, and disappeared toward the kitchen hatch.
Elaric exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening a fraction. The mask held. For now, it would have to be enough
A few minutes later, the waitress returned, balancing a steaming wooden tray with practiced ease. The aroma hit Elaric first—thick, comforting waves of creamy porridge swirled with golden honey, crisp bacon rashers glistening with fat, warm rye bread still crackling faintly from the oven, and a mug of spiced cider sending up curls of cinnamon-scented steam that warmed his face.
She set it down in front of him with a small clink of crockery. "Enjoy your breakfast, sir," she said, her voice low and smoky from years of shouting orders over tavern noise. Then she turned to go—hips swaying like a slow pendulum, the soft bounce of her bodice doing things that should probably be illegal before noon.
Outwardly, Elaric's poker face remained absolute: eyes flat, mouth neutral, the serene expression of a monk who'd counted nine million and twelve sheep and was now personally acquainted with every single one. He even managed a polite nod—calm, dignified, utterly unshaken.
Inside? Inside, a riotous standing ovation was taking place. A tiny, depraved audience in his head cheered, whistled, and threw roses. *Yes, yes, walk away slower—give the people what they want!* He savored every jiggle like a connoisseur appreciating fine art, all while his face betrayed nothing more dramatic than mild interest in his porridge.
He picked up the wooden spoon and began eating with deliberate slowness, as though this were a sacred ritual. The porridge was velvety, sweet honey melting on his tongue; the bacon snapped between his teeth with salty, smoky perfection; the cider warmed his chest like a friendly hug. For a few glorious minutes, the world was simple and good.
Then he glanced up mid-bite—and spotted them.
Directly across the room, at a sunlit table by the window, sat a couple. Both roughly twenty-five, same as him. The girl had bright auburn hair tied in a loose braid, cheeks flushed with laughter. The boy—lean, easy-smiling, with the kind of effortless charm Elaric had never possessed—was leaning in, murmuring something that made her giggle and swat his arm playfully. Their hands brushed as they shared a plate of honey cakes. She fed him a piece; he pretended to bite her finger. More laughter, soft and intimate, like a private melody no one else was invited to hear.
Elaric's spoon paused halfway to his mouth.
Externally: still perfect poker face. Not a twitch. A statue carved from Pure Stoicism™.
Internally: absolute carnage.
The peaceful sheep meadow he'd spent all morning constructing? Obliterated. A lone wolf burst onto the scene—rabid, red-eyed, frothing at the mouth—ripping fluffy white sheep apart with savage glee. Blood-soaked wool flew everywhere. The wolf howled, *MINE WERE PEACEFUL SHEEP, YOU BASTARDS!*
His inner monologue devolved rapidly:
*Look at them. Laughing. Touching. Feeding each other like it's nothing. Motherfu— I will kill this guy. Slowly. With this spoon. I'll scoop out his eyes and feed them to him on honey cake. "Here, darling, try this delicacy."*
The wolf paused, panting. *Wait, no—too obvious. Poison the cider. Classic. Or trip him on the way out, blame a loose floorboard. Accidental death. Tragic. Thoughts and prayers.*
Elaric calmly took another bite of bacon, chewing with mechanical precision while the wolf paced and snarled.
The couple leaned closer, foreheads almost touching, whispering something that ended in a shared, secret smile.
The wolf threw back its head and let out a silent, furious howl that rattled the bars of Elaric's ribcage.
Outwardly, he simply reached for his mug, took a measured sip of cider, and nodded to himself as if appreciating the spice blend.
Inside, the wolf sharpened its claws on the wreckage of a million imaginary sheep and muttered, *One day, pretty boy. One day.*
Elaric finished his breakfast like a good, civilized boy—while quietly plotting fictional murder most foul.