The atmosphere in the warm, herb-scented kitchen felt like a different world entirely—a pocket dimension where the laws of war didn’t apply. Just hours ago, the sky had been cracking open with elemental rage, the air sharp with electricity and fear while the threat of annihilation stood on their front porch in an expensive suit.
Here, in this sanctuary of honey-stained pine cabinets and simmering butter, the only real danger was a flying crumb. It felt like a different place, a different time, anchored by the rhythmic chop-chop-chop of Elana’s knife and the low hum of the refrigerator.
Caspian and Briar, fueled by the sugar and carbs of warm, buttery biscuits, had turned their high chairs into podiums for a very loud, very serious debate. They were dusted in flour, looking like two tiny,
