Following him is a wiry fellow who looks like he could use about ten bowls of soup and maybe a cow. I resist the desire to dump the entire pot into his bowl. Morwen would probably have my head if I did.
The fourth person is average in every way, which is somehow more startling than all the extremes I’ve seen so far. I almost want to compliment him on his impressive ordinariness.
Then...Cenric steps up, and suddenly my spoon feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. My brain freezes, and I’m pretty sure I no longer know how to breathe.
Is that still a thing people do? Breathing?
He looks like he has just stepped out of a lake. His damp surcoat clings to him. His wet hair is slicked back, droplets of water clinging to the ends like they’re afraid to let go. I don’t blame them.
His skin practically glows, from what I assume was a very cold bath, considering that winter stakes her claim more and more every day.
Cenric raises an eyebrow, and I flush, realizing I’m holding my spoon suspended over his bowl. “Are you going to give me any, Everly?”
“I-I...yes, of course.”The gods have mercy! Did I stutter?
My hand trembles as I ladle the soup into his bowl, sloshing a bit over the side.
An amused smile tugs at Cenric’s mouth, and my heart does a little somersault.
It’s not fair. How can one man’s smile be so devastating?
Heat creeps up my neck and floods my cheeks.I keep my eyes fixed on the spoon, watching the steam rise from the soup, as if it holds the secrets to Tarrobane. Or at least the secret to not making a complete fool of myself in front of Cenric.
“Thank you, Everly.”
I nod, still not trusting myself to speak. Who knows what might come out of my mouth? I might start reciting poetry about his eyes or confess my undying love right here in front of everyone. And wouldn’t that just be the perfect end to this absolutely mortifying moment?
I chance a glance up at him through my lashes, immediately regretting it when I see his eyes glinting with humor.
He’s enjoying this, the brute. He probably thinks it’s hilarious to watch me bumble around like a newborn calf trying to run for the first time.
I open my mouth, ready with a witty retort that will surely restore my dignity. “Your soup.”
Or not…
“My soup?” he asks with a lift of his eyebrows.
More warmth floods my cheeks as I fumble for something—anything—to redeem myself. “Yes. Do you have enough?” I gesture weakly at his bowl.
He glances down at his soup. “Plenty. Thank you.”
Cenric walks away, his broad shoulders swaying as he moves. He settles onto a nearby log, and I tear my gaze away.
Right. I have a job to do.
I return to serving soup, but my eyes have a mind of their own, constantly drifting back to where Cenric sits—flanked by Praxis, Gabriel, and Luc.
Praxis, with his friendly brown eyes and that long scar onhis face, leans in to say something to Cenric. Probably sharing some brotherly wisdom, like“Remember to oil your sword”or“Don’t forget to scowl extra hard at dinner.”
Gabriel nods along to whatever Luc is saying, his face stoic.
Cenric sits in the middle of it all, looking like he’s barely tolerating them. His eyes scan the camp, and for a heart-stopping moment, they lock with mine. I quickly look away, pretending to be absolutely fascinated by the act of serving soup.
Oh yes, this spoon is the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen.
Look at how it scoops.
Truly revolutionary.
