Marked by the Four Beast Lords After Transmigration

By morning, the little packet of useful scraps had not been forgotten.

Nia found it on the kitchen shelf where Shen had placed it the night before, folded into its cloth and weighted with a small clean stone so no one could pretend it had slipped behind a jar. The hearth had burned low while they slept, but the cave still held enough warmth that the cloth was dry beneath her fingers when she touched it.

Kael had already gone.

His side of the bed had been warm when Nia woke, but the warmth had thinned by the time she sat up. The cloak hook near the entrance was empty, and his cup from last night had been rinsed and turned upside down beside the basin. He had left without waking her, which meant Shen had let him.

Nia turned toward the kitchen.

Shen stood at the counter with his hair tied back from his face, pouring dark warming bark steep through a cloth into a narrow jar. Beside him sat four sealed jars, a stack of clean wraps, two small salve pots, the useful-scraps packet, and a shallow bowl of preserved berries mashed with honey until the mixture gleamed thick and dark.

“You let him leave before I woke up,” she said.

Shen did not startle. “He asked me to.”

Nia came closer, pulling her wrap more securely around herself. “That doesn’t make it better.”

“He ate before he left.”

She stopped with one hand on the back of the chair. “He did?”

“Yes. Two root cakes, warmed broth, and tea.”

“Two?”

“One and a half. I counted the bitten piece.”

Nia narrowed her eyes at him. “That is not two.”

“It is closer to two than one.”

His tone stayed mild enough that arguing would have required more strength than she had before breakfast. Nia crossed the rest of the way to the counter and looked at the jars. The warming bark steep smelled strong enough to sit behind her nose, sharp and earthy, with a heat that seemed to rise before she drank it. The salve pots held a softer scent beneath the bark: rendered fat, crushed winter herb, something resinous, and the faint clean bite of snowmoss.

Her attention went last to the berry bowl.

It was not loose like the preserved berries they had used for cups. Shen had cooked or mashed it down until the fruit clung to the spoon in a thick ribbon. Honey caught along the surface, and a thin strip of sun-sour peel curled at the edge of the bowl, half-submerged.

“You started the berry syrup?”

“I started a small test.”

“With sun-sour peel?”

“And honey. Mari sent the scraped jar bottoms.” Shen lifted the spoon and let the mixture fall back into the bowl. It did not pour. It folded into itself, slow and glossy. “The drink workers keep warming preserved berries and straining them each time. It takes too long when runners come in cold.”

Nia leaned closer. The steam held berry, honey, and the bright lift of sun-sour peel. Her mind went toward concentrate, syrup, cordial, the sort of thing that could turn hot water into comfort without a full pot. She let the old words pass through without leaving her mouth.

“If it’s this thick, a little could flavor a whole cup.”

“That was my thought.” Shen tipped the spoon toward her. “Taste?”

Nia took the spoon with one hand while holding her wrap closed with the other. The syrup touched her tongue tart first, then honey-warm, then faintly bitter from the peel in a way that kept it from becoming flat sweetness. It needed a little salt. Not enough to taste, just enough to wake the fruit.

She reached toward the salt.

Shen had already moved the small dish closer.

Nia turned toward him.

“I thought so too,” he said.

She took a pinch, stirred it in, and tasted again. The berry sharpened at once.

“That’s better.”

Shen nodded and wrote a small mark on the bark-paper beside the bowl. His handwriting was neat and even, careful enough for more than kitchen notes. “Salt after cooking. Peel while warm, remove before sealing?”

“Maybe. If it sits too long, it might turn bitter.”

He fished the curl of peel from the bowl and set it on a small plate. “Then remove now.”

Nia studied the jars again. “Where are you taking all of this?”

“Lower doorway first. Then the treatment room. Then the smoke pit if the wind has not shifted smoke into the corridor.” He tied the cloth over the berry bowl and set it into a padded basket. “Mari asked for warming bark near the main kitchen entrance before the first carts move.”

“You’re going down now?”

“Yes.”

Nia reached for her scarf from the chair. “I’m coming.”

Shen’s gaze dropped to her feet, and she looked down with him. She had not put on her boots.

“I’m putting them on.”

“You have not eaten.”

“I can eat while we walk.”

“No.”

Nia paused with the scarf half-raised.

Shen’s gaze softened without yielding. “Eat first. Then come partway. The treatment room will be crowded, and the floor near the smoke pit is wet.”

“I can avoid wet floors.”

“You can. Other people carrying hot things cannot always avoid you.”

Nia set the scarf down and reached for one of the covered bowls on the counter. “What am I eating?”

“Grain with berry syrup.”

“You made syrup and breakfast?”

“I warmed grain and stirred in the test that stuck to the spoon.”

The bowl held soft grain loosened with milk and a little honey, streaked dark red where Shen had folded in berry syrup. It looked gentler than the syrup smelled, the grain soft enough that steam rose slowly from the surface. He set it in front of her with a spoon, then added a cup of tea beside it.

Nia sat and ate under Shen’s steady eyes.

The berry syrup softened into the grain without disappearing. Tartness threaded through the mild sweetness, and the sun-sour peel left a brightness that made breakfast feel less heavy. It was good in a different way than the honey-bark berry cups, gentler than dessert and bright enough for a winter morning.

Shen finished packing while she ate. He wrapped the salve pots separately from the jars, placed folded cloth between each container, then tied the basket so nothing knocked together. The useful-scraps packet remained on the shelf, and Nia glanced at it. “You’re not taking that?”

“Not today. It is a later thought.”

“Kael said mark it later.”

“I marked it.” Shen pointed to a small strip pinned beneath a jar: dry root, dry green, hollow stalk, herb salt, broth starter. The marks were small but clear. “Later does not mean forget.”

Nia’s spoon slowed.

Shen tightened the basket tie without looking at her directly. “Eat the last bite.”

She did, though the last bite went down slower after that.

By the time they left the cave, Nia’s boots had been warmed near the hearth, her scarf was tucked beneath her braid, and Shen’s basket smelled of bark, berries, and salve. The upper corridor carried more cold than the cave, but the floor had been freshly gritted, and faint boot marks cut through the ash where Kael must have passed earlier.

Shen walked on the outer side of the corridor where meltwater gathered in thin lines and the cold came stronger from the side passages. Nia noticed after the third turn and glanced at him.

He was looking ahead, walking the colder edge without comment.

They passed two workers carrying empty jars uphill. One shifted his load when he saw Shen, making space before being asked.

“Treatment room already full?” Shen asked.

“Hands mostly,” the worker said. “One ankle. Two runners with cracked heels. Rovan came through and left again.”

“He ate?”

The worker’s mouth moved. “He had something in his mouth.”

“That is not the same.”

Nia glanced at Shen, and he kept his eyes on the corridor.

At the lower doorway, cold pushed through the cloth before they reached it. Three kitchen workers stood near the entrance, shoulders hunched as they warmed their hands around cups that had gone pale and thin from being refilled too often. One had red cracks across her knuckles. Another kept flexing her fingers before tucking them beneath her arms.

Shen set the basket on a side shelf and opened it without ceremony.

“Hands first,” he said.

The woman with cracked knuckles tried to hide them. “They are not bad.”

“Then they will be quick.”

She gave up faster than Nia expected.

Shen warmed a cloth over a covered pot, wiped the woman’s hands clean, and rubbed salve into the cracks with a care that did not slow the doorway traffic. He did not ask her to stop working for long. He only turned her hands palm-up, thumbed salve into the raw places, wrapped the worst finger with a narrow strip, and put a warm cup into her hands after.

“Do not wash pots for one turn,” he said.

“I have to—”

“You can sort dry cloths. Or argue with Mari.”

The worker snorted despite herself. “Dry cloths.”

Nia took one of the berry jars and opened it. The syrup inside clung to the spoon. “How much for a cup?”

Shen glanced over while tying the next cloth strip. “Less than you think.”

Nia spooned a small amount into a cup, added hot water from the doorway kettle, and stirred. The liquid bloomed red, thinner than the syrup but still rich enough to smell of fruit. Steam carried the sun-sour brightness up around her face.

The second worker leaned closer. “That is from the preserved berries?”

“Scraped jar bottoms,” Nia said. “Honey, peel, a little salt.”

“Salt?”

“A little. It makes the berry taste more like itself.”

The woman accepted the cup, blew across it, and took a careful sip. Her eyes lowered to the liquid. “That is better than the thin pot.”

“Stronger?” Nia asked.

“Warmer.”

“It is the same heat,” the first worker said, cradling her wrapped fingers.

The second took another sip. “Still warmer.”

Nia understood what she meant. Some drinks reached the mouth, and some reached the hands before the cup was empty.

Shen finished the second worker’s knuckles and moved to the third. People shifted around him naturally, taking their cups, passing cloths, moving empty jars to the side. He did not command the doorway, but work changed to make room for him. A runner came in with snow clinging to his eyelashes and stopped when he saw Shen’s basket.

“Rovan?” Shen asked.

“Smoke pit, then cold store.”

“Did he take bark?”

“He took something from Sera.”

Nia stirred another cup of berry drink. “That could be anything from bread to a scolding.”

The runner’s mouth curved against the rim of the cup she handed him. “It looked wrapped.”

“Then bread.”

Shen’s eyes flicked briefly toward her before he reached for another strip of cloth.

They moved from the doorway to the lower treatment room after the first jar was half-empty.

The treatment room sat just off the lower passage, close enough to the kitchens that workers could come in without crossing half the mountain, but far enough from the smoke pit that clean cloth did not smell of ash the moment it was folded. Nia had passed it before. She had never stood inside long enough to see its rhythm.

It was busier than she expected.

Two men sat on the bench near the wall with their boots off, toes wrapped in warm cloth. A kitchen worker held both hands above a basin, steam rising around swollen knuckles. A young runner leaned against the far shelf while an older woman checked the raw cracks at his heel. Shelves held jars, bark strips, folded cloth, splints, dried herbs, and small stones warmed in covered bowls. The air smelled of salve, damp wool, warming bark, and bodies that had been cold too long.

People shifted when Shen entered, making room the way they did in kitchens when someone arrived carrying what was needed. The older woman at the runner’s heel looked up and held out a hand without stopping her work.

“Bark?”

Shen passed her a packet. “Steeped low. Strong jar is marked.”

“I need strong.”

“For feet, not mouths.”

“I can read marks.”

“You put the wrong salve on Dovan’s wrist last winter.”

“He lived.”

“With a rash.”

Nia pressed her lips together and turned toward the basin before the laugh could escape too loudly.

The older woman caught it anyway and looked at her. “You must be Nia.”

Nia straightened. “Yes.”

“Good. Hold this cup until he can stand on that heel properly.”

The young runner lowered his eyes to the cup and took it without another appeal.

Shen was already unwrapping the kitchen worker’s hands. “Drink.”

The runner drank.

Nia moved beside the bench and found herself holding cups, passing cloth, opening jars when Shen’s hands were full, and stirring berry syrup into hot water when someone’s mouth looked too pinched from cold. No one asked her to explain the drink after the second cup. They asked where the spoon was, whether the syrup needed more water, whether the peel stayed in, whether the last bit in the jar could be scraped with hot water.

She answered what she knew and said she did not know when she did not.

Shen moved from person to person with the same quiet attention he gave a pot near the hearth. A man’s toes were unwrapped, checked, warmed, and wrapped again. A worker’s chapped hands were cleaned before salve touched them. A runner’s heel was dried more carefully because damp cloth had made the cracks worse. He remembered which hunter hated bitter bark and gave him berry drink first so he would stop arguing. He told one kitchen worker to stop gripping hot handles bare-handed and handed her thicker cloth before she could deny doing it.

The complaints came freely. One worker claimed the salve stung; Shen took his hand back and checked the skin before allowing the complaint to go anywhere. A runner tried to return to work before he could stand without limping, and Shen kept the cup in his hand until he stopped arguing. Mari had sent half of them while shouting, which meant her part had already been done.

Nia poured hot water over the last spoon of berry syrup and stirred until the jar came clean. The drink turned pale but still smelled faintly of fruit. She handed it to the older woman, who gave it to the runner with the cracked heel.

“Scraped jar bottoms,” the woman said after tasting from her own cup. “That is useful.”

“Mari said jars are heavy and break,” Nia said.

“Everything is heavy when Rovan carries it.”

Rovan appeared in the doorway with a strip tucked between his teeth, a covered pot in one hand, and a bundle under his arm. He stopped when every person in the room looked at him.

He removed the strip from his mouth. “I was told to bring this.”

Shen held out his hand. “By whom?”

Rovan glanced at Nia, then at the older woman, then back to Shen. “Which part?”

Nia took the covered pot before he could drop it. It was warm and smelled faintly of Sera’s bread.

Shen held out his hand.

Rovan surrendered the strip.

While Shen read, Nia set the pot on the worktable and lifted the cover. Inside were small root cakes stacked between cloth, still warm enough that steam clung to the lid. Sera had tucked a small folded note into the top cloth. Nia did not need to read it to know it probably said something about feeding whoever pretended they had already eaten.

Shen finished the strip. “Kael says the second turn remains foot traffic only. No gold gourd carts today.”

Rovan leaned against the doorway. “Tarek says he said it twice.”

“North ravine?”

“Still closed. Tracks turned higher.” Rovan shifted the bundle under his arm. “Also, Mari says if the berry drink is good, she wants to know how much syrup makes one pot and whether it keeps after opening.”

Nia turned toward the empty jar.

Shen’s gaze met hers across the room.

Cold hands needed something quick, warm, and easy to carry.

“It might need to stay sealed until use,” Nia said. “Once it’s opened, maybe we should use it the same day unless it’s kept cold.”

Rovan’s brow furrowed. “It is winter.”

“It’s warm inside.”

He looked around the treatment room, where steam rose from basins and the hearth kept salve soft. “Inside is warm.”

“If it sits open near heat, it might sour wrong or mold. If the syrup is thick enough and the jar is clean and sealed, it might last longer. Once it’s opened, use it for drinks or glazes that day.”

Shen nodded slowly. “Small jars, then. Not large.”

Nia pointed at him with the spoon. “Yes. Smaller jars open one at a time.”

The older woman wiped salve from her thumb. “If a jar is too small, runners will empty it before the second shift.”

“Then two sizes,” Shen said. “Doorway jars and treatment jars.”

Rovan looked at the empty cup in his hand. “Runner jars?”

Shen glanced at him. “No.”

The older woman reached for a clean wrap. “Runners can stand by the doorway like everyone else.”

Rovan accepted a root cake from the pot and ate half of it in one bite. He froze under Shen’s attention.

“I was given this.”

“By Sera,” Nia said. “Probably for everyone.”

Rovan broke the other half of the cake and handed part to the runner beside him.

The runner took it without looking up.

Shen folded Kael’s strip and tucked it into his sleeve.

The treatment room kept moving around them. Nia helped refill the small kettle, then stirred a second, weaker batch of berry drink using the rinse from the jar and a little extra honey. It was weaker than the first, but it still gave them a cup to hold. The older woman approved of the stronger syrup for cold workers and the weaker rinse for anyone who only needed warmth around their hands.

After the last salve pot was half-empty and the root cakes had become crumbs in the cloth, Shen began repacking the basket.

Nia wiped the spoon clean. “You do this every day?”

“Not all of this.”

“That’s not an answer.”

His eyes flicked toward her, amused in the smallest way. “Some days are quieter.”

The older woman snorted from the shelf. “He says that on loud days too.”

Shen tied the jar cloths. “Some days are louder.”

Nia studied the bench, the wrapped hands, the cups, the runner flexing his heel before putting his boot back on, and the kitchen worker tucking thicker handle cloth into her belt.

Shen picked up the basket. His fingers smelled of warming bark and salve even from where she stood. One streak of berry syrup had dried near his thumb, dark against his pale skin.

Nia reached for the damp cloth on the table and took his hand before he could lift the basket fully.

He stilled.

“You have syrup on you.”

“I know.”

“You were going to leave it.”

“It was not in the way.”

She wiped the sticky streak from his thumb, then turned his hand and found salve along the side of his palm, bark dust near one knuckle, and a small red mark where hot water must have splashed.

Her thumb paused. “You burned yourself.”

“Not enough to matter.”

Nia looked up.

Shen’s mouth closed.

Behind them, the older woman turned toward the folded cloths.

Nia dipped the cloth in cool water, pressed it to the mark, and held it there. “Not enough to matter isn’t the same as nothing.”

His eyes lowered to her hand around his. For a moment, the room’s movement thinned around them, not stopping, only receding behind the steam and the warmth of his skin beneath her fingers.

“No,” he said softly. “It is not.”

She kept the cloth there until the redness eased.

Rovan appeared at the doorway again, now with a different strip and no root cake. He took in the sight of Nia holding Shen’s hand, opened his mouth, looked at Shen’s face, and closed it.

“Message?” Shen asked.

Rovan held out the strip without comment.

Shen read it with his free hand because Nia had not let go of the other.

“Mari wants the syrup notes before midday.”

“She can have them when your hand is done,” Nia said.

Shen’s eyes lowered to her hand still holding his. “My hand is done.”

Nia gave it one more careful wipe, then released him.

Rovan waited until Shen tucked the strip away before saying, “Sera also says if Nia is in the treatment room, she should sit before going back through the lower passage.”

Nia turned toward him. “Sera isn’t here.”

Rovan shifted his weight. “She wrote it down.”

The older woman pointed at the empty stool.

Nia sat.

Shen set the basket down without comment, took the small bark-paper sheet from the shelf, and wrote the syrup notes while standing beside her: cooked berry scrap, honey, sun-sour peel removed before sealing, pinch of salt after cooking, thick enough to fold from spoon, small clean jars, use open jar same day if kept warm. Nia added what he missed with her voice, and he made the marks without arguing.

When he finished, Rovan took the note, looked at the marks, and turned it right-side up.

“Can Mari read this?”

“Yes,” Shen said.

“Good.”

He left again, the note held carefully this time instead of between his teeth.

Nia watched the doorway curtain fall behind him. “He’s tired.”

“He has been running since before dawn.”

“We should make the berry sheets soon.”

“Not today.”

“I know.” She rubbed her thumb against the edge of the stool. “Soon.”

Shen lifted the basket again. “I need to take one jar to the smoke pit. Then I can walk you back to the kitchens or home.”

“Treatment room first, doorway second, smoke pit third.” Nia turned toward him. “You said I could come partway.”

“You came partway.”

“This isn’t partway. This is most of the way.”

The older woman reached for the next roll of clean cloth without looking at either of them.

Shen’s gaze moved to the floor and back. “Smoke pit floor is wet.”

“I’ll stay by the dry wall.”

“You say that before leaning.”

“I only lean when I’m trying to smell something.”

“There is smoke. You will smell it from the dry wall.”

Nia stood and took one folded cloth from the table. “Then we agree.”

They did not agree, but Shen let her come.

The smoke pit corridor was warmer than the treatment room and harsher. Smoke rolled through the upper vents, kept mostly away from breathing height but never entirely gone. Hooks of thick-feather bird hung in lines, their skins darkening, fat dripping into shallow trays beneath. Workers moved with cloths over their mouths and eyes narrowed against the sting.

Nia stayed by the dry wall because Shen waited until she stayed by the dry wall before setting down the basket.

Mari stood beside the smoke racks, one hand on her hip and the other holding a strip of smoked bird she had clearly torn off before it was ready. Her eyes went from Shen’s basket to Nia’s boots to the folded cloth in Nia’s hand.

“Sera told you to sit?”

Nia closed her eyes briefly. “Does everyone know?”

“Rovan passed it along.”

Shen removed the last jar of warming bark and passed it to the smoke-pit worker. “For hands, not mouths. The berry syrup note is coming.”

“Mari has it now,” Rovan called from somewhere beyond the smoke racks.

Nia opened her eyes.

Rovan appeared through the smoke with a cloth tied over his nose and mouth, holding an empty strip in one hand. “She read it.”

He corrected himself before Mari answered. “You read it.”

“Then listen while I ask questions.”

He nodded and moved behind a hanging bird to avoid blocking the workers.

Mari turned to Nia. “Small jars.”

“Yes.”

“Open same day.”

“If they’re kept warm.”

“Cold room after opening?”

“Maybe, but if people keep opening it, it won’t stay clean.”

Mari grunted. “Doorway jars, treatment jars, kitchen pot.”

“Kitchen pot can use the less-thick version if it’s going to be used quickly,” Nia said. “The thick syrup is better for carrying and quick cups.”

Mari pointed toward the smoke-pit worker. “Mark that. Thick for carrying. Thin for kitchen pot.”

The worker wrote on a hanging scrap of bark-paper smudged with smoke at the edges.

Shen checked the hands of one smoke worker whose fingers were red where hot fat had splashed. He cleaned the spot, rubbed salve around but not over the open sting, and wrapped it with a narrow strip. The worker kept glancing toward the berry jar.

Nia took the hint and made one cup with less syrup and more hot water from the smoke pit kettle. The worker accepted it with his unwrapped hand.

“That is good,” he said after drinking.

Mari tore a smaller piece from the smoked bird and held it toward Nia. “Taste.”

Shen’s hand moved before Nia could reach toward the smoky rack. He took the piece from Mari, checked the heat, then gave it to Nia.

The bird was strong, as expected, but smoke had rounded the gamey edge. It still needed the sour red strips or something sharp beside it. The fat clung to the tongue more than burrow-hen would have, and the smoke made it feel heavier.

“With the sour red strips,” Nia said after swallowing. “Or a little berry sharpener, but not the sweet one.”

Mari nodded. “Sour strips if they soften. Berry if they do not.”

“Not both.”

“Not both,” Mari agreed.

Rovan, still behind the hanging bird, said, “What about the berry drink?”

Mari and Nia both looked at him.

He lifted his hands. “For drinking. Not with the bird.”

Nia smiled despite the smoke in her eyes. “Yes, Rovan. People can drink the berry drink while eating smoked bird.”

His shoulders eased. “Good.”

Shen finished wrapping the worker’s hand and repacked the salve. His hair had loosened near his cheek from the heat, and smoke clung to the white strands. When he lifted the basket, his hands carried every scent of the morning: bark, salve, berry, smoke, and the faint resinous herbs from the treatment room.

Mari took the remaining syrup jar and held it up to the light. “This will save time.”

“If it keeps,” Nia said.

“If it does not, we use it fast and complain.” Mari set the jar near the marked cups. “Go sit somewhere before Sera comes down herself.”

Nia looked at Shen, who gave nothing away.

“You told her where we were going?”

“No.”

“Rovan did,” Mari said.

Nia sighed and let Shen guide her out of the smoke pit corridor.

They stopped at the quieter bend between the smoke pit and lower kitchens, where the wall held heat from hidden flues and the smoke thinned into a faint wood scent. Shen set the basket down and leaned one shoulder against the stone. His eyes closed for a breath before he opened them again.

“You’re tired,” Nia said.

“A little,” Shen said, though the faint curve of his mouth admitted more than the words did.

She took his hand again before he could pick up the basket. The burn mark was pale now, hardly anything. His fingers smelled of warming bark. When she turned his palm upward, she found salve caught in the lines of his skin, berry near one nail, smoke threaded through everything else.

“You smell like half the mountain,” she said.

“Only the lower half.”

Nia rubbed her thumb over the base of his palm, not cleaning now, only touching. “You cared for the doorway workers, treatment room, runners, smoke pit, and probably Kael before dawn.”

“Kael was before dawn.”

“Shen.”

He looked at her then.

The corridor was not empty. People passed at the far end. Somewhere nearby, a cart wheel bumped over uneven stone. Mari’s voice carried faintly from the lower kitchen, telling someone the berry syrup was not jam and to stop putting their fingers near it. The mountain kept working around them.

Nia held his hand between both of hers.

“You should eat when we get back.”

“I ate breakfast.”

“Some?”

His eyes lowered.

Nia nodded once. “Then we’re going to Sera’s table or home.”

“I have one more jar to mark.”

“After food.”

The quiet between them settled.

Shen’s tail curved around her ankle, light enough that she could step away if she wanted. She did not. His fingers shifted in her hands, turning until he could brush his thumb across her wrist, over the place where his bite had once closed cleanly through the bond.

Nia’s breath softened.

He did not say anything about the mark. His thumb stayed there, warm from bark, salve, berry, and smoke, until Nia squeezed his hand.

From the lower kitchen, Mari shouted, “If you two are standing in the corridor, stand near the side. Carts are moving.”

Nia startled, and Shen closed his eyes for one breath before picking up the basket with his free hand and guiding her toward the wall.

A worker passed with jars stacked in a crate, each one clean, small, and waiting to be filled. The jars caught the low corridor light in dull flashes. Behind the worker came another with a pot of thinned berry mixture, steam rising red and sweet into the air.

Nia watched them go.

The syrup was already moving through Hearthfang in small cups and marked jars, carried from the doorway to the treatment room to the smoke pit.

Shen’s hand stayed in hers.

“Home?” he asked.

Nia turned toward the lower kitchens, where the berry smell mixed with smoke and broth and Mari’s voice. Then she looked at Shen’s hand, still warm from everyone else’s care and finally held still in her own.

“Food first,” she said.

His eyes warmed.

They walked toward the warmer corridor together, the basket between them smelling of bark and berries, while behind them the first jars were opened and hot cups passed from hand to hand.

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