The absolute restraint of the party completely evaporated the moment Lexel handed out the wooden bowls.
Flinn didn't even bother using a spoon; the rogue practically inhaled the rich, golden broth, his eyes widening as the savory flavors exploded across his palate. Anthierin let out a low, blissful hum, all her lingering embarrassment entirely forgotten as she tore into the tender pieces of meat. Even Cresty, despite her strict upbringing in high society, was aggressively scraping the bottom of her bowl, completely abandoning royal etiquette for a second helping.
As the hot soup settled, a strange, profound warmth began to spread from their stomachs to their fingertips. It wasn't just filling—it was actively refueling them. Cresty's completely drained aether pools began to surge, ticking upward past the miserable twelve percent mark, while Flinn's sluggish fatigue vanished in a heartbeat.
