The day passes without incident.

  Morning comes with bread and noise, with Tomm arguing over who gets the bigger knife and Nia insisting the soup needs “more green.” The Watcher’s Kitchen opens on time. Lunch rush comes and goes. A handful of regulars linger longer than usual, sheltering from the heat and trading rumors Eis half-listens to while she works.

  It is… ordinary.

  Noticeably so.

  Alaric does not come.

  Eis registers the absence without lingering on it. Knights have duties. Schedules change. Life continues whether one person passes through it or not.

  By dusk, the light slants gold through the windows. The last pot is scrubbed clean. Chairs are turned upright on tables. The children finish their chores with varying degrees of success.

  Team Argent lingers near the counter—Ronan leaning back against the wall, Kael picking at a crust of bread he definitely didn’t ask for, Lira flipping through a grimoire with distracted focus.

  It is comfortable. Familiar.

  That is when Sir Alaric steps into view

  He comes closer, helm tucked under one arm, cloak damp from the evening dew. He looks as he always does—composed, precise—but there is something slightly off in his posture, a tension held too carefully to be casual.

  Conversation slows.

  Not stops—but pauses. A collective noticing.

  Alaric inclines his head politely to everyone, eyes passing briefly over Team Argent, the children, the kitchen itself. Then they settle on Eis.

  “Miss Eis,” he says evenly. “May I speak with you? Privately, if you have a moment.”

  The request lands gently—and still sends a ripple through the space.

  Tomm looks up first. Elara straightens. Nia watches with quiet curiosity.

  Lira raises an eyebrow. Kael glances between Alaric and Eis, interest sharpening. Ronan does not move—but his attention is unmistakable.

  Eis studies Alaric for half a breath.

  Then she nods.

  “Give me a moment.”

  She turns to the counter, gives Elara a brief instruction, rests a hand on Nia’s shoulder as she passes. The kitchen hums back into motion behind her as she steps outside with Alaric, closing the door softly.

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  The street is damp, lanternlight reflecting in broken lines across the stone. The noise of the district has softened into background murmur—voices, footsteps, distant laughter.

  Alaric stops beneath the awning, turning to face her fully.

  He does not rush.

  “I won’t take long,” he says. “I know your evenings are… not entirely your own.”

  “They are,” Eis replies calmly. “But I can spare a few minutes.”

  He nods once, accepting the boundary without offense.

  There is a pause—not awkward, but deliberate. The kind that comes before something already decided.

  “Eis,” Alaric says, voice steady, “I wanted to ask you something. Not as a knight. And not as someone speaking on behalf of anyone else.”

  Her expression remains open. Neutral. Listening.

  “I know you’ve built something here,” he continues. “Something rare. And I won’t pretend I don’t understand the weight of asking to step into that space.”

  He exhales once.

  “I would like to take you to dinner. Just once. Not as an obligation. Not as a promise. Simply… to know you better, if you were willing.”

  No flourish. No confession. Just an offer.

  Eis does not answer immediately.

  She looks past him, briefly—toward the warm light spilling from the kitchen windows. The silhouettes inside. The voices she knows by heart.

  Then she meets his gaze again.

  “You honor me by asking,” she says quietly. “And by doing it this way.”

  Alaric inclines his head slightly, acknowledging the respect.

  “But,” Eis continues, “I can’t accept.”

  The word is gentle. Firm. Final.

  He does not flinch.

  She goes on—not apologetic, but honest.

  “I’ve spent a long time surviving. Moving. Responding to danger. Since coming here… I’ve built something I didn’t know I was allowed to want.”

  She gestures faintly toward the building behind her.

  “This. The people in it. The quiet, ordinary days.”

  Her eyes return to his.

  “I don’t want to change that right now. Not even for something that could be good.”

  Alaric listens without interruption.

  When she finishes, he is silent for a moment—then a small, rueful smile touches his mouth.

  “I thought that might be your answer,” he admits. “But I also knew I’d regret it if I didn’t ask.”

  She inclines her head slightly. Respect, returned.

  “I’m glad you did,” she says.

  “So am I,” he replies. “Now I can leave without wondering.”

  He steps back, placing his helm under his arm once more.

  “I wish you peace, Eis,” he says. “You’ve earned it.”

  “And you,” she answers. “Wherever duty takes you next.”

  Alaric bows—not deeply, not formally. Just enough.

  Then he turns and walks down the lantern-lit street, armor quiet against the stone, posture straight and unburdened.

  Eis watches until he disappears into the crowd.

  When she reenters the kitchen, conversation resumes almost immediately—only slightly louder than before.

  Kael gives her a look. Lira watches her closely. Ronan meets her eyes for a brief, searching moment.

  The day ends the way it began.

  Not with longing.

  But with what she has chosen to keep.