Chronicles of the Untalented

The air still carried the lingering scents of grilled meat and ash from the festival fires, but most of the lanterns had been packed away, and the plaza was quiet once more. Only a few feathers from the soundbirds remained scattered in corners, still humming faintly with residual echoes. Silas breathed in deep, then exhaled slowly.

The chaos had passed.

It was strange, how he missed it already.

He met Velira just outside the training grounds. She was wrapped in a rough wool coat, her hair tied up in a hurried knot, and for once, her shoulders weren't tense with worry.

"You're late," she said without heat.

Silas gave a crooked smile. "You invited me. I didn't realize it was a timed appointment."

"Grandma's not going to wait forever. She's baking."

"Wait—she knows how to bake? Like, real food? Not sludge stew?"

Velira rolled her eyes. "She lived before food was rationed, remember? She knows more recipes than our whole generation combined."

That was enough incentive. Silas followed her without hesitation.

---

Velira's grandmother lived near the outer rings of the city, in a stone house that looked like it had been stitched together over the decades. The walls leaned slightly. The steps creaked. But it was warm—warm in a way Silas hadn't known a house could be. There were dried herbs hung from the ceiling, and cloth dolls sat in the windowsills, smiling at no one.

The moment the door opened, a rush of heat and the scent of fresh bread hit them both.

"Oh, you're late!" came a thin but cheerful voice. Velira's grandmother stood in the narrow kitchen space, stirring something thick in a clay pot. "And you didn't say you were bringing a boy."

Silas froze. He wasn't used to people calling him 'boy' anymore.

Velira muttered, "He's not a boy, Grandma. He's Silas. My friend."

Her grandmother squinted over her shoulder, then nodded. "Friend, is it? Alright then, Silas-friend. You've got good timing. Sit down before the bread cools."

The table was small and low, the chairs uneven. Silas took a seat, still a bit overwhelmed. He'd fought monsters. He'd survived an effigy refinement. But he had never seen a table set like this—bowls of thick stew, hard-boiled root vegetables sliced and dusted with ash salt, a slab of dense, slightly sweet bread steaming in the middle.

"You didn't have to—" he started.

"Bah," the old woman waved a spoon at him. "You look like a twig someone tried to burn. Eat."

Velira smirked behind her cup.

Silas took a bite of the bread. It was a little hard, a little chewy. And the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.

---

After the meal, they stayed for tea. It was bitter, smoky stuff—made from dry leaves Velira's grandmother grew in broken clay pots. They sat by the hearth, watching the soft, cold glow of the lantern outside filter through a cracked windowpane.

"So," her grandmother said suddenly, turning to Silas, "what kind of trouble are you two always getting into?"

Velira choked on her tea. "We don't—!"

"We keep it reasonable," Silas interrupted, grinning. "Only one monster fight per week."

"Mm-hmm." The old woman studied him. "You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The look of someone who's too smart for their own good. Like my husband. Always staring at runes until his eyes crossed. Nearly blew the door off one night trying to reinvent fire."

Velira leaned her head on her hand. "Sounds familiar."

"Hey," Silas said, "my explosions are at least controlled."

"Sure," she said. "Like your emotions."

Her grandmother chuckled. "He's got a temper?"

"Only when provoked," Velira said. "Or called talentless. Or—"

"Okay, okay," Silas groaned. "I get it."

---

They stayed longer than expected. Time didn't move the same way here—not under the cracked beams and wool blankets and the sound of an old woman humming as she cleaned up dishes. Silas felt his thoughts slowing down, untangling. He didn't have to analyze every sigil in the room. He didn't have to think about monsters, or entropy, or how little sleep he'd gotten this week.

Just tea. And bread. And warmth.

Eventually, Velira's grandmother offered him a spare scarf made from mismatched threads. He almost refused it, but she wrapped it around his neck anyway.

"Looks better on you than it did on the cat," she said.

"…Thank you?"

Velira looked like she was holding in a laugh.

---

When they stepped outside again, the city felt less cold. Not because the temperature had changed—but because Silas carried something with him now. A memory. A breath of peace.

He looked sideways at Velira. "Thanks for bringing me."

"You needed it," she said simply.

And he did. Maybe more than he realized.

They didn't speak for a while as they walked home, the dull glow of the street-lanterns guiding their way. But just before they parted, Velira said:

"She liked you, you know."

Silas raised an eyebrow. "Who, the cat?"

Velira snorted. "My grandmother."

He smiled. "Good. I liked her too."