The hall felt too warm after the cold.
Aria’s cheeks still stung from the wind by the time she stepped inside. The smells of stew, woodsmoke and wet wool crashed into her at once. Voices rose and fell, tamped‑down tension humming just under the surface.
Mara thrust a bowl into her hands before she’d even fully cleared the doorway.
“Eat,” the older woman ordered. “You look like someone dropped you in a snowbank and then told you bad news.”
“That’s… extraordinarily accurate,” Aria said.
“Age makes us good at guessing,” Mara replied, already turning back to her pots.
Aria retreated to a quieter corner, the far bench by the wall, away from the main current of traffic. She sat, but her hands didn’t move. The stew cooled, untouched.
Formal ceremony.
The phrase rolled around in her skull
