[center][img]https://i.ibb.co/ssxt53R/Thalia-Evercrest.png[/img][/center][hr][right][sub]Location: Eye of the Beholder
Interactions: Open
Mentions: Sya ([@PrinceAlexus]), Ivor ([@SkeankySnack]) [/sub][/right][hr]
[indent] Thalia glared at the flour bag as if it had called her a name to her face. In turn, the lumpy sack slumped on the counter like a lazy drunk, its rough surface coated in pale powder. She crossed her arms and cocked her head sideways, half hoping the stupid thing might sprout a label saying How Not to Ruin Bread: A Guide for Former Rich Girls Who Can’t. But no such luck.

The tavern’s main room felt heavy with quiet, broken only by the wind whining through boarded-up windows and the occasional groan of the wooden floors. A handful of people still huddled near the fireplace, wrapped in scarves and suspicion, their eyes darting toward the front door that had been locked the entire night. The bar itself stood abandoned, though someone had left out a sad spread of stale bread, wrinkled apples, and mystery meat under a greasy cloth. 

Thalia didn’t mind picking through leftovers—hunger was a blunt teacher. What she [i]did[/i] mind was being expected to turn flour into actual food. It was simply too big an ask for a girl like her. The noble houses of Aurelia had many rules, some of which were spoken plainly and some passed through generations in the silent way of tradition. Nowhere in those teachings had anyone ever instructed her on what, precisely, to do with a bag of flour at ten in the morning after a town lockdown.

Lark had plopped himself by the hearth the moment they’d entered, his tail giving a single thump against the floorboards as if to say, [i]Feed me or else[/i]. Thalia’s father trailed behind her, scrubbing a hand over his stubbled face as he eyed the sad breakfast spread. He looked like a man who’d long ago stopped expecting anything better than whatever he could snatch with his hands. Thalia had noticed this about him lately—how he adjusted without fuss. Or maybe “adjusted” wasn’t quite right. He wasn’t ignorant of their crumbling status, their shrinking world. But he didn’t rage against it. Instead, he treated their downfall like bad weather—something to wait out. Something you couldn’t shout into changing.

He hadn’t argued when their servants had quit. Hadn’t flinched as their grand home’s doors were sealed one by one. Hadn’t blinked when friends had vanished like smoke. 

It wasn’t surrender he exhibited, though. It was patience. A trait Thalia had never quite mastered.

Her jaw tightened as he ripped a hunk of bread like it was no different from the delicate pastries they’d once eaten on silver trays. Maybe it wasn’t, to him. Maybe he’d always known their glittering life would crumble. Maybe that’s why it stung—his quiet acceptance felt like a mirror, reflecting all the ways she [i] hadn’t[/i] let go.

“[b]You’ll scorch a hole through that flour bag with those eyes,[/b]” her father grumbled then, shuffling past her to poke at a plate of shriveled carrots.

“[color=#663399]I wasn’t glaring,[/color]” Thalia replied, arms crossed. “[color=#663399]I was… considering my wide range of options, as usual.[/color]”

He snorted, tossing a bread crust to Lark. The dog caught it midair, tail wagging. “[b]Last time you weren’t doing something you were clearly doing, we had to air out the kitchen for days.[/b]” 

“[color=#663399]That was a new recipe.[/color]”

“[b]It was toast,[/b]” he said, chewing, “[b]You were making toast.[/b]”

Thalia snatched the driest bread roll she could find, ignoring his chuckle. Dawnhaven’s idea of a meal—stale bread and lumpy vegetables—made her miss Aurelia’s citrus-glazed cakes. But missing things was dangerous. It meant admitting they were gone.

Thalia had just slumped into a chair and bitten into her rock-hard roll when the tavern door crashed open. A blast of icy wind rushed in, followed by a booming voice that practically rattled the cups on the tables.

“[color=#9a45dc]Good morning everyone![/color]”

Thalia blinked. Slowly.

She turned just in time to see what could only be described as a walking avalanche of fur and muscle stomping cheerfully inside. For a brief moment, her alcohol-blurred memory scrambled to place him—had he been at the feast? Or was this just what the gods conjured when they wanted to test one’s bravery?

Then came the realization: blight-born.

A proper one.

She’d seen them before, from a distance and heard references in hushed tones, sometimes described with words that sounded less like facts and more like folklore. But this was the first time she’d [i]really[/i] taken one in. Not glimpsed through foggy eyes and mind. But really looked.

And stars above, he was moon-blighting massive.

Not just in height—though he easily towered over everyone in the room—but in presence. He wore his size like a declaration, all red hair and glowing eyes and scarred confidence, the kind of man who could lift a cart off someone or hurl it [i]at[/i] someone and not break a sweat either way. She watched as he laughed easily, joked with the innkeeper- a snake! How inebriated had she been last night?- in a language she didn’t recognize, then handed off what looked like a bottle with a wink before turning toward a red-haired woman sitting deeper in the room.

Thalia released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and quickly turned her eyes back to her bread. Not that she was scared, exactly. Just… reminded that Dawnhaven didn’t play by the same rules as her home had. Here, a blight-born didn’t arrive, if they did, with armed escort or fanfare—they walked in like regular people. Talked like regular people. Smiled like—

She tore a bite from the bread a little more forcefully than necessary.

“[b]You like the bread that much?[/b]” her father muttered as he took the seat facing her, voice dry as ever.

“[color=#663399]Hardly,[/color]” Thalia replied, reaching for her mug. “[color=#663399]Just readjusting my definition of ‘morning person.’[/color]”[/indent]