“Timmy said the queen told them to move,” Theo said as he helped me carry breakfast to our tiny dining table.
His small hands gripped the edge of the bread basket, his knuckles white with the effort of not dropping it.
The basket was almost as big as his torso, and he staggered slightly under its weight, his tongue poking out in concentration.
“I said okay, so I decided to move with her.” “Mm.” I answered absentmindedly, my focus split between the conversation and the scrambled eggs I was stirring.
The pan sizzled beneath my spatula, the familiar scent of butter and eggs filling the small kitchen.
Golden steam rose in lazy curls, carrying warmth through the cramped space.
Living here was nothing like living at the temple.
Back there, everything was done for you.
Breakfast was already waiting when you woke up.
If you didn’t feel like leaving your room, someone would bring it to you on a silver tray.
There were servants to draw your bath, priests to offer morning prayers, clerics to check on your health.
Far too many people, each one fussing and clucking and treating you like you were made of glass.
Here…
It was just Theo and me.
A tiny wooden dining table that wobbled slightly on its uneven legs.
A kitchen that was barely big enough for the two of us to stand in without bumping elbows.
A hearth that smoked when the wind blew the wrong way.
And a child who never seemed to run out of things to say.
Oddly enough…
I preferred it.
There was something honest about this life.
Something real.
At the temple, every word was measured, every action observed, every smile calculated.
Here, I could be myself.
I could wake up with tangled hair and sleep in my eyes.
I could cook my own meals and eat them in peace.
I could sit in the garden and drink my tea without anyone lecturing me about propriety.
“Syly?” Theo’s voice pulled me back to the present.
“Are you listening?” “Yes, Theo.” “You didn’t look like you were listening.” “I was listening and cooking at the same time.” “Is that possible?” “It is.” Theo considered this for a moment, his brow furrowing with the effort of processing such complex information.
His small face scrunched up in thought, making him look like a wrinkled old man trapped in a child’s body.
Then, apparently satisfied, he continued his story.
“But I got sad before I left,” he said, his voice softening.
His usual exuberance faded, replaced by something quieter, more vulnerable.
“Because who would take care of you if I wasn’t here?” I looked at him.
Did…
Did he just say take care of me?
Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?
I was the Sol.
I was supposed to protect him, guide him, watch over him.
Not the other way around.
And yet there he was, this small child with crumbs on his face, worrying about whether I’d be okay without him.
His eyes were earnest, filled with a sincerity that made my chest ache.
I shook my head and walked back into the kitchen for the bread.
The basket was warm beneath my fingers, the fresh-baked loaves still radiating heat from the oven.
I’d woken early to make them, kneading the dough by hand while the sun crept over the mountain.
Theo suddenly went quiet.
…
That was suspicious.
Very suspicious.
He was definitely stealing food.
“Stop steal—” The words died in my throat.
The man had finally left my room.
He stood quietly by the doorway, one hand resting against the wall as though he were orienting himself.
His hair was still slightly disheveled from sleep, and his clothes—the spare set I’d left for him—hung loosely on his frame.
Though his sight hadn’t returned, his head turned the moment he heard my voice.
Those black pits fixed on the general direction of the kitchen, and for a moment, he looked almost vulnerable.
His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight.
He looked like a man bracing for a blow.
Theo’s face lit up brighter than the morning sun.
“Just like Syly said!” he cheered, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Mister, you came for breakfast!” The man hesitated, his hand tightening on the wall.
Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or uncertainty.
“I…” “Come sit!” Theo jumped off his chair, his bare feet slapping against the wooden floor.
“I’ll get you a plate!” Before either of us could stop him, Theo darted into the kitchen.
I heard him rummaging through the cupboards, the clatter of ceramic plates and the soft thud of him pulling down a cup nearly as big as his face.
He was humming to himself, a little tune I didn’t recognize.
The arrogant alpha quietly found one of the empty chairs and sat down.
His movements were slow.
He reached out with one hand, feeling for the edge of the table before lowering himself into the seat.
His fingers brushed against the wood, tracing its outline before he settled.
Our dining table only had four chairs.
Usually, one stayed outside because I liked drinking tea in the garden after breakfast.
The morning sun was warm there, the mountain air crisp and clean, and the view of the valley below never failed to calm my racing thoughts.
I’d sit there for hours sometimes, just watching the clouds drift by.
Theo hated my tea time.
He insisted I spent too much time meditating.
He’d complain and fidget and ask when I was coming inside, completely oblivious to the fact that I needed those moments of peace.
Personally, I thought he talked too much.
I placed the basket of freshly baked bread on the table before taking my own seat.
The wood was warm beneath my palms, still carrying the heat of the sun from the window.
The scent of the bread mingled with the eggs and bacon, creating a symphony of aromas that made my stomach rumble.
Theo returned carrying another plate and a cup that looked comically large in his small hands.
He set them down with the care of someone handling precious artifacts, then turned to our guest with a proud smile.