By The Moon's Blade

1. The Festival of the Clouds, Two Years Ago

Morning beckons with a gentle warmth on my face. This time of year, the sun always rises earlier than I'd like it to. My legs ache from traversing up and down the mountain yesterday. I only made it as far as Snowvein before I gave in and decided to stop in for a quick pie in The Lonely Deer. And let me tell you, there may be nothing harder in this world than walking away from a roaring fire and trudging outside in the frigid wind with a belly full of food.

Nonetheless, I made it home and immediately crashed onto the living room couch, despite the consistent protests from my mother that I make good use of my comfortable bed and spacious room. Pillows stacked tall, silken grey sheets, a beautiful four-post bed made of knotted white oak - and all I want to do is pass out immediately on our hand-me-down couch. My family has experienced enough strife, from escaping war to building a family business from scratch. She never wants me to take these luxuries for granted, and I understand, but it's hard to control where my feet take me at the end of the night.

I stare at the ceiling for a few seconds, weighing my options. I know that getting off of the couch is realistically my next option, but my legs feel like lead, and doing... well, anything sounds like a chore. In an effort to be as dramatic as possible (for an audience of none), I slowly roll off the couch, bemoaning my sore legs and letting out a quiet sigh. If I can sneak to the kitchen quickly enough, I can start prepping breakfast before my family is up, narrowly avoiding another bedtime lecture.

I pick myself up off the ground and look around our home, a small arched hut with a courtyard going through the middle, mimicking a crescent moon laying on its points. Our bedrooms sat on one side while the kitchen and gathering areas sat on the other side. I silently slid over to the window to take a peek across the courtyard, pushing the wispy white curtain slightly back to try and catch a glimpse of my parents.

With the coast clear, I turn my body and hit unexpected resistance. And as I look up, I see my mother's slate-colored face looking down at me. I don't know where I inherited my small height, as both of my parents are as tall as can be. I stand at least a foot shorter than my mom, craning my neck as she looks at me with a slight smirk on her face.

"How was the couch?" she inquires, still smirking.

"I, um... no, I slept in my bed," I stammered.

"So you made your bed too? Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?" she teased.

I chuckled and trudged off to the kitchen, pulling out various pots and pans to prepare breakfast for the family. Our cupboards are always chock full of different vegetables and herbs from the garden, our pantry stocked with homemade breads, jams, and jellies. If I hadn't already settled into music, I would have pursued the culinary arts. I come from a long line of brilliant chefs, with my parents establishing one of the finest restaurants in the history of Cloudridge.

I think my mother may have been a little disappointed when I chose not to pursue an art form in the family line. I have no siblings to pick up the mantle of culinary art, so though she'd never admit it, I think she is heartbroken that the family business ends with them. Nonetheless, though I'll never pursue cooking professionally, I love to create tasty food within the confines of our own home.

This morning, I've settled on a hearty pot of stewed white beans with fresh winter onion and mint from the courtyard garden, served with a hearty loaf of bramblebread from the bakery in Kridar. I always use a hefty amount of winter onion, caramelizing it into a layer of sweet, sharp jam before stewing it with some dried beans and rich broth. This meal has become a staple in our household - quick, easy, and full of flavor.

I hear a door creak open and suddenly my father appears by my side, beckoned by the sweet and savory smell.

"Incredible timing, I just finished up," I said with a smile, giving my father a side hug before serving up three deep bowls of stew. I dug a knife out of the drawer and started cutting up hefty slices of bread, snuggling them into the bowls.