Morningstar

[CH. 0022] - The Spellmaker

Nord's eyes darted from the ornate leather chair to the two men who were cautiously unloading it from the cart with the aid of Adamastor. Her gaze finally settled on the woman in a beige blouse and high-waist skirt—Sirona, standing with an air of subdued exhaustion.

"I heard you needed a chair," Sirona spoke first, her eyes purposefully avoiding Nord's.

"I'm not sick," Nord retorted, crossing her arms defensively.

Sirona sighed, "You do look tired, though."

Nord's eyes narrowed. "You look like you haven't seen a bed in centuries."

The comment hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. Sirona met her gaze for the first time, vulnerability breaching the stoic wall she'd built around herself.

"I deserve that," she finally admitted, "and you deserve an apology."

They stood in a charged silence, two women caught in a web of unspoken tension. Nord's eyes were a piercing dark abyss, relentless and probing. Sirona looked away, the weight of her own shame pulling her gaze to the ground.

"It would be custom to let me in for a tea," suggested Sirona.

"Really?" Nord uncrossed her arms, "Tea?"

"I can't undo what I've done," Sirona said softly, a brittle edge in her voice. "But the chair, it's a start. A poor one, maybe, but it's something."

Nord eyed the chair, then back to Sirona. "So, a chair's supposed to make everything alright? A 'sit down, shut up, and let the grown-ups talk' kind of peace offering?"

"Not at all," Sirona replied, "It's an olive branch. A hope for a new start. I... I'm not good at this, but I want to make things right."

Nord scoffed, her eyes still hard. "Make things right? You've got an odd way of showing it."

The tension was a live wire between them, humming and volatile. Sirona hesitated, taking a deep breath as if gathering the shreds of her composure.

"I was wrong, Nord. I didn't give you a chance to talk. I... I acted out of line, and for that, I'm truly sorry. Your life, your decisions, they're yours to make. I had no right to push you out like that and barked at you as I did."

Nord's face remained a guarded mask, yet the tiniest flicker of something—perhaps acceptance, perhaps a chance —flashed in her eyes.

"Tea, you said?" Nord finally broke the silence, a cautious note in her voice.

"Yes, tea," Sirona replied, her eyes meeting Nord's for the first time without flinching away, "Or any sort of hot beverage. Beggars can't be choosers.'

As Nord guided Sirona into her kitchen, the heavy scent of old dust and freshly ground herbs melded in the air. Finnea and Kirara were heaving crates from one side of the room to the other, the thud of wood reverberating with each drop.

Sirona eyed the activity, intrigued. "What's going on? You moving or something?"

Nord pushed the creaky door open further, gesturing for Sirona to proceed. "Revamping, actually. Making this place my own."

Nord placed a well-worn kettle over the stove's low flame. With practised ease, she reached for a couple of ceramic mugs and spooned tea leaves into them. Sirona watched, entranced by the familiarity in Nord's movements.

Sirona broke the silence. "So, why the elaborate chair in a place like this? It doesn't exactly scream 'general store.'"

Nord chuckled. She rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her forearm with a deft movement, revealing intricate ink patterns that weaved and danced on her skin. "I'm a tattoo artist."