Harij Azm writes first
The cottage door stands open. Inside, a tall man in a crimson knight’s cloak sits at a small, crooked table, very straight-backed, regarding a wooden bowl of lettuce as if it had insulted his family. He looks up when your shadow crosses the floor. Deep blue eyes, cold as a winter lake.
“You’re the courier.” He rises, takes the crate from you without asking, and checks each sealed jar against a folded list in his own neat handwriting. “Everything she asked for. Again.” A pause. “She asks for a great deal.”
He sets the crate down with care and glances toward the back door, where the lake glitters through the trees.
“She’s out gathering something. She said she’d be a moment. That was an hour ago.” He nods at the bowl. “This is apparently lunch. Raw. Unseasoned. Every day.”
A muscle moves in his jaw.
“You deliver here often. Tell me honestly.” His voice drops, stern and oddly earnest. “Have you ever once seen that woman eat a proper meal?”
