A Luncheon of Vipers

She gave a slow, deliberate nod, her consciousness still adrift in a pleasant, lingering fog.

Saku’s focus shifted from Cera to Perla, his expression echoing the younger girl’s own disquiet. “Kiddo,” he began, his voice a low rasp laced with an undeniable thread of shame, “would you do me a favor and flip the sign to ‘Closed’?” With a vague motion, he indicated the front of the establishment. “The last thing we need is more customers wandering in this late.” A set of keys arced through the air towards her, which she snagged from the air with practiced ease. “Lock the doors on your way out. Don’t worry about coming back until you’re feeling more like yourself.”

“I can handle that,” Perla affirmed, but Saku had already pivoted away. His gaze had found and fixed upon an obstinate stain on the floorboards, and he gave no indication that he had heard her at all.

Cera made a performance of her departure, her boots striking the wooden floor with exaggerated loudness. The instant she was beyond their line of sight, however, she soundlessly slipped back into the shadows, her heart hammering a steady, anticipatory rhythm against her ribs. She pressed her ear to the cool, solid wood of the kitchen door. In this unfamiliar world, such reconnaissance was not merely mischief; it was a crucial tactic for self-preservation.

From within the kitchen, the silence was broken by the wet clatter of a rag dropped into a bucket. Saku’s footsteps approached Perla, who was methodically storing the freshly butchered venison. He sank onto a stool with a weary groan, stretching muscles that protested with every movement. “I trust the butcher gave you a decent price.”

Perla cast a quick look over her shoulder, her lips twisting into a sly, subtle smile. “You could say I got it for a steal.”

From her post outside the door, Cera bit her lip to suppress a giggle at the terrible pun. She was beginning to realize the older girl was a repository of small, unexpected surprises.

A genuine laugh escaped Saku, though his eyes remained closed. His voice then took on a more serious, earnest quality. “You know, I could really use your help back here tomorrow. It’s for that feast everyone keeps going on about.”

“Well, that’s a concern for tomorrow,” Perla noted, her expression growing thoughtful. “Time has a way of slipping through your fingers. This venison ought to hold us for a day, at the very least.”

“Not even half a day,” Saku corrected her gently.

“Is it Willem’s questionable standards of hygiene again?”

“That,” Saku confirmed, “and the perpetual danger of Red and Cy inhaling our entire inventory before the lunch rush even begins.”

A soft, pleasant laugh escaped Perla. “Speaking of whom, where has Willem gotten to?”

Saku offered a tired shrug. “Likely slipped out early. His son has been occupying most of his thoughts lately.”

“And conveniently left all the cleaning duties to us?” A flicker of annoyance warmed Perla’s cheeks.

“You know how he gets,” Saku reminded her softly. “Could you grab a mop?”

Cera’s brow furrowed in confusion. Why had Saku been so determined to send her away? Their conversation was utterly mundane. Unless… unless an entire dialogue had passed between them in a single, silent glance—a conversation she had completely missed.

She heard a subtle change in the sounds from the kitchen. Saku’s voice lowered, taking on a quieter, more intimate tone, as if he had moved to stand directly beside Perla. “Maybe,” he murmured, the words seeming to be more for his own benefit than for hers, “when this is all said and done… maybe we could go for some tea.”

A profound silence descended, thick and heavy.

Then, Perla’s voice emerged, equally hushed. “That would be nice. But this isn’t going to be over any time soon.”

“No,” he conceded.

Another quiet moment stretched between them.

Cera seized the chance. Moving with the silence of a phantom, she darted to the front of the restaurant. In one swift, fluid motion, she locked the door and flipped the hanging sign to ‘Closed’. She pressed her ear to the back door one final time, just as it swung inward. Cera jumped back, but the door’s edge clipped her foot, sending a sharp, searing pain shooting up her leg that promised a magnificent bruise.

“Cera!” It was Perla. Cera’s stomach plunged. They’ve caught me. “You’ve been spying long enough. Get in here, we’re nearly done. You didn’t run into any problems, did you?”

Shame washed over Cera as she dropped her gaze to the floor. “A cat ran across my path,” she lied, the falsehood feeling clumsy and foreign on her tongue. Deception was not among her talents.

Perla chose not to press her, although her eyes lingered on Cera for a moment with an unreadable look. “The rest is all yours, Saku.” Cera registered that it was the first time she had heard Perla use his given name all evening. He responded with a mock salute as the two girls departed.

Once they were back on the trail, Cera started to gently poke fun at Perla about her budding romance, finding it a welcome and amusing diversion from the grim, encroaching reality of the war.

“And how, precisely, have you contributed?” Argent’s voice, as sharp and cold as a winter frost, sliced through the strained atmosphere of the dining hall.

Perla winced. The clan meal was already a disaster. It had begun with Reddington’s smug declaration of his wife’s pregnancy, which was immediately followed by Jiro’s crass speculation about the unborn child’s intelligence—an insult so profoundly blunt it had stung even Perla. Now, the evening had degenerated into a pathetic exhibition of one-upmanship. Perla suspected that after a few more cups of rice wine, they would start comparing the patterns on their undergarments.

“What a foolish question,” Cy hissed, his glare fixed on Argent. “I am the clan leader. My contribution is self-evident.”

“Do you care to elaborate?” Argent challenged. “Because I remain thoroughly unimpressed.”

“I am training ten new recruits. Without my efforts, our forces would be perilously thin.”

Jiro let out a snort. “How impressive. I successfully burned down three of the training huts.”

“That is hardly something to boast about, Jiro,” Cy and Argent snapped in perfect unison. Their shared contempt for Jiro’s remark did little to dissipate the animosity simmering between them.

“It demonstrates commitment!” Jiro retorted, folding his arms across his chest in a defensive posture.

“Destructive tendencies,” Perla muttered just under her breath as she moved deftly between them, refilling their cups and swapping soiled napkins for fresh ones. While she was not typically so servile, the clan leader, his heir, and the chief lieutenant were figures who commanded a certain obligatory deference.

Red leaned back in his chair, one eye narrowed in a mocking smirk. “So, Cy. When are you planning on getting a girl?”

Cy’s jaw clenched. Red had returned to his preferred method of attack. “Not in the middle of a war. Ami’s pregnancy must be a terrible inconvenience for you.”

Red merely shrugged, the very picture of nonchalance. “It happens when it happens. Or it doesn’t.” His gaze slid to Cy, his own expression laced with derision. “Perhaps, in your case, it never will.”

A cunning smile played on Jiro’s lips as he interjected, “Or perhaps you’re asking the wrong question entirely. Ever wonder if our esteemed clan leader prefers the company of men?”

A strange, shuttered look fell over Cy’s face. The nearly imperceptible twitch of his left eyelid told Perla all she needed to know: the question had struck its target like a masterfully thrown dart, landing far too close to the truth. It was peculiar; she had never before detected any indication of his inclinations. She mentally filed the observation away for future consideration.

“My, my, I do believe a modicum of respect is in order,” Argent drawled. His tone was one of profound boredom, however, suggesting he was merely exhausted by their incessant bickering. “Where is that beef goulash?”

“You’re one to talk,” Jiro grumbled. “I hear you’ve been skipping clan meetings to pay visits to The Seeress.”

A palpable tension gripped the other three men at the mention of the name.

“Jiro,” Cy warned, his voice a low and dangerous growl.

Perla saw Jiro for what he was: a defector in the making. A man of twenty-five with a shock of unruly red hair and a prominent scar on his forearm, which he displayed with the same pride as his clan tattoo. He was arrogant and a natural loner, perpetually in pursuit of a more visceral kind of combat. Betrayals were common enough, and they almost invariably arose from men cast in Jiro’s mold. To speak the name of such a clandestine figure so casually in the middle of clan affairs… The Seeress. Perla committed the name to memory.

A tremor shot through her fingers, forcing her to tighten her grip on the heavy teapot. Hot tea sloshed from the spout, splashing across the pristine tablecloth. A wave of pure panic washed over her. Her immediate instinct was to summon her fire, a useless impulse she instantly suppressed. Heat flooded her cheeks as the dark liquid bled into the white linen. It felt like a personal affront to her competence, a stain not merely on the cloth, but on her very standing within the clan.

Jiro dabbed at the spill with a clean napkin before tossing it disdainfully onto her empty plate. “Waitress,” he sneered. “Are you simply incompetent, or did you require special training to learn how to pour tea?”

Perla bowed her head, absorbing the verbal assault without a word of protest. The painful realization struck her that she should have been seated at that table, occupying the seat beside Cy as his chief lieutenant—a position currently held by a leering brute for whom she was infinitely more qualified.

A warm presence materialized beside her, and Saku’s voice, a low murmur intended only for her, brushed against her ear. “Let it go.”

The tension drained out of her as if his words had lanced an abscess. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she returned to her duties. Jiro’s taunts receded into the background noise as she refocused her mind. In this difficult life, Saku was one of her few solaces, alongside the quiet fulfillment she found in the work itself. He was lean and unwavering, his presence a daily constant. There was a comforting, dependable rhythm to all his movements, right down to the precise, slanted angle at which he always cut carrots. The thought of him sent a faint flutter through her chest, an emotion she promptly and resolutely pushed aside.

Whether she was searing venison over a roaring fire or fending off raiders in a border skirmish, she entered a state of pure, unshakeable concentration. Some might have called it a state of nirvana.

She simply called it home.