"Morning already..."
Usually, what woke me was the sunlight slipping through the gaps in my window. This house sat in the middle of a forest, not far from the capital, and every morning was greeted by a gentle light filtering through the dense canopy. Quiet, peaceful, and comfortable. That was why I had chosen to live here.
But this morning was different.
What woke me was not the sunlight, but a sound that should not have been there.
A soft clatter from the kitchen. The clink of a pot. Water being poured. And faintly, the aroma of something being cooked.
I lay still in bed for a moment, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. My brain needed a few seconds to recall what had happened the night before.
Right. I was no longer alone in this house.
A woman who should have been on the gallows by now was cooking in my kitchen.
I got out of bed, washed my face with cold water from the basin by the window, and tidied my hair halfheartedly in front of the small mirror on the wall. As always, I put on my calm and serious expression. The face of a man who appeared to be contemplating matters of great importance.
In reality, the only thing on my mind was this.
What is she doing in my kitchen?
My footsteps descended the wooden stairs toward the dining room. The house was not large, but I had made the most of every space. The dining area connected directly to a small kitchen on the left, and on the right was a door that led out to the garden.
Normally, on a morning like this, I would go straight to making a cup of coffee, then sit in the garden and enjoy the silence. A simple ritual that no amount of gold in the world could replace.
But that ritual was now interrupted by a sight I had never once imagined.
Veralyn Silvercrown was standing in front of my kitchen stove.
Her long silver hair was tied back with a plain ribbon she must have found somewhere. The noble gown she had worn the night before had been replaced with spare clothes I had left in the guest room wardrobe, clearly too large for her, but she wore them without complaint. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and her hands stirred something in a pot with an expression so serious it looked as though she were solving an advanced magical theorem.
A woman who had nearly been executed in front of the entire kingdom just yesterday was now standing in my small kitchen, making breakfast.
The scene was so surreal that my brain stopped working for a few seconds.
And without realizing it, my lips curved upward.
This is like a married couple.
Of course, I did not say that out loud. That sentence existed only inside my head, and it would stay there until I died for the second time.
But it seemed my face was not cooperating.
"Is there something odd about my face?"
Veralyn's voice broke through my thoughts. Her gaze was flat, but there was a slight crease in her brow that told me she was genuinely asking.
I realized my lips were still smiling like an idiot.
Immediately, I pulled my expression back. Serious face. Calm gaze. Mysterious aura. An NPC who was not supposed to smile without good reason.
"No, it is nothing," I replied in the even tone I had practiced for years.
Veralyn stared at me for one second longer than was comfortable, then turned back to the stove without a word.
I sat down at the dining table and surveyed the room. On the table, a plate had already been neatly arranged. A bowl of soup still steaming, a piece of bread toasted over embers, and a glass of water. Simple, but laid out with a precision that only someone accustomed to order could achieve.
Veralyn set the small pot down on a wooden trivet, then stood at the side of the table with her arms folded across her chest. Her posture was straight, as though she were awaiting evaluation from an instructor rather than simply serving a morning meal.
I picked up the spoon and tasted the soup.
Salty.
Very salty.
The salt hit my tongue like an uninvited wave. I had to summon every ounce of self-control I possessed to keep any reaction from showing on my face.
Stay calm. You are a mysterious NPC. Mysterious NPCs do not wince because the soup is too salty.
"How is it?" Veralyn asked. Her tone remained flat, but I caught something almost invisible. The fingers folded against her arms pressed a little tighter. She was nervous.
A magical genius who had mastered advanced theory and achieved perfect marks at the academy was nervous because her soup was being tasted by a commoner.
This moment was far too precious to ruin.
"Not bad," I answered briefly.
A complete lie.
But Veralyn seemed slightly relieved. The tension in her fingers eased, even though her expression did not change.
I continued eating without further comment. Honestly, it was far too salty. But I had no right to complain. During all my time living alone in this house, my breakfast was usually nothing more than a piece of dry bread. Occasionally, if I was lucky, Serena would stop by and cook something far more fit for human consumption. At the very least, this soup was someone's effort to make something for me, and that alone was already more than I usually got in the morning.
But as I was nearing the bottom of the bowl, I noticed something.
On the table, there was only one plate. One bowl of soup. One piece of bread. One glass of water.
A single serving.
I raised my head and looked at Veralyn. She was still standing at the side of the table in the same posture, showing no intention of sitting down.
"You have not eaten?" I asked.
"I have prepared breakfast," she replied, as though that answered my question.
"That is not what I asked."
Veralyn was quiet for a moment. Her expression did not change, but her eyes shifted slightly to the side.
"I will eat later."
A lie far too easy to read.
I set my spoon down.
Now I understood. She had not forgotten to make a portion for herself. She had deliberately chosen not to. In her mind, she was someone who owed a debt of life. Someone who had been saved. And in this world, someone who owed a debt ate after their master had finished, or did not eat at all.
My chest tightened slightly.
"You need to make food for yourself as well," I said.
Veralyn looked at me.
"I have already made yours. That is enough."
"No," I answered, firmer than usual. "It is not enough."
I stood from my chair and walked toward the kitchen. On the wooden shelf near the stove, I took a piece of bread, split it in half, and placed one piece on a clean plate. I also poured the remaining soup into a small bowl, then brought it all to the table.
"Sit," I said, pulling the chair across from mine.
Veralyn did not move.
"I did not save you so that you could starve in my house," I continued. "As long as you are here, we eat together. That is not a request."
A brief silence filled the room.
Then, without uttering a single word, Veralyn stepped toward the chair and sat down.
She picked up a spoon, tasted her own soup, and for a moment her expression changed. Very faintly, almost imperceptibly, but I was certain I had not imagined it.
Her brow furrowed.
She realized the soup was too salty.
I pretended not to notice and kept chewing my bread. Inside my head, I was quietly pleased to discover that it was not just my palate that had a problem.
We ate in silence. No conversation. Only the occasional sound of a spoon touching the rim of a bowl, and the morning breeze drifting in through the open kitchen window.
The first morning that was no longer quiet.