Dark Snow

Chapter 3: Stubborn

Lucas managed to sleep another half hour, and by the time he woke, sunlight filtered into the room, casting a pale glow across everything. Dust particles floated in the air, suspended like tiny insects caught in the morning light. He blinked groggily, his gaze drifting to the space under the table, where Grayson had been. But the creature was gone.

Sighing, Lucas swung one leg over the bed, then the other, the floorboards creaking softly under his weight. The next few minutes were spent dressing: his woolen jacket and pants, and his mask, which he stuffed into his pocket for now. He rebuckled the sheath around his waist, resting a hand on the dagger's hilt as he often did. It had become a habit. Yet this morning, it had no words to say.

He placed a hand on the doorknob, feeling its icy chill. This whole town was an icebox. As he twisted it open, a particular smell hit him, making his nose twitch — spicy and pungent, with a hint of sweetness. He couldn't quite place it, but beneath it lingered a more familiar scent. Meat. Venison, if he had to guess, and his stomach grumbled at the thought. They did mention breakfast, Lucas thought with a watering mouth.

Closing the entryway softly behind him, Lucas glanced down the corridor to his left. The front door was shut tight. His gaze shifted to a small, open archway with no door, where a thin stream of steam drifted into the hall. He could hear movement within. With careful steps, he moved forward as if navigating a dangerous space, peeking around the aged wooden frame. The room revealed itself to be a small kitchen. Over a fire hung a pot, and within the simmering water, he spotted pieces of ginger root. So, they do get trade here, Lucas noted. Ginger wasn't known for thriving in cold climates.

To his right, Lucas's eyes landed on Mia, who was already watching him silently. Her hair was still tousled from sleep, and her coat was dusted with a light layer of snow, melting in the warmth and humidity that filled the room.

"Hey," Lucas greeted, giving a small wave before nodding toward the steaming pot. "What's—"

"Humidity, I think," she interrupted, not waiting for him to finish. "Father hates a dry house." She turned back to her plate, focusing on a small piece of meat that looked like chicken. His gaze lingered on it, his hunger unmistakable. Noticing this, she paused, swallowing the piece in her mouth. Her teeth were strikingly white, though faint dark circles lingered beneath her eyes.

"You look tired," Lucas remarked, stepping further into the room. She sat at a tall, polished wooden table that looked surprisingly expensive. He took a seat on one of the stools, which leaned slightly to one side, forcing him to adjust for balance.

Mia bit her lip, poking thoughtfully at her meat with a fork. Should I? she asked herself, then decided it was for the best. But first, she'd have a bit of fun.

"Chicken's right there." Mia nodded toward a small wooden plate piled with warm slabs of poultry. "Father made it a little while ago, so it's still warm..."

Lucas opened his mouth to respond, but the temptation won. Leaning forward, he piled two pieces onto his plate and began eating with his hands. Mia watched him, one eyebrow raised.

"You really like hot meat, hmm?"

"Yeah—well..." Lucas paused mid-bite, glancing at her suspiciously. "Wait. What do you mean by that?" He straightened, trying to brush off her comment with a half-smile.

She smirked, shaking her head. "Nothing, idiot." Finishing her plate with one last bite, she pushed it aside and leaned back, watching him eat with casual amusement. John had always insisted on table manners, so it felt strange to see someone so carefree about it.

"Hey," she teased, raising an eyebrow. "There are forks for a reason, you know."

He paused abruptly. "Oh." Lucas muttered, setting down the meat and reaching for the silverware. "Sorry—just, uh... not used to all this."