The kitchen of the Mallow cottage was never truly quiet.
While the Blaz manor on the hill was defined by a suffocating, formal heat, Sela's home was an entirely different kind of furnace. It was a modest, two-story house built of river stones and mortar, sitting right where the village lanes dissolved into the southern fields. It wasn't sprawling, but it felt smaller than it was because of the sheer volume of life packed inside it.
"Sela, catch!"
A large, wooden bowl filled with freshly washed radishes came sailing across the kitchen. Sela didn't blink. She didn't even look up from the cutting board where she was slicing bread. Her left hand snapped out, catching the rim of the bowl effortlessly, absorbing the momentum without spilling a single drop of water.
Her father, Arthur, burst into a booming, deep-chested laugh from across the room. He was a broad-shouldered man with a wild beard and eyes that always looked like they were hunting for a punchline. He was currently carrying a massive sack of potatoes on one shoulder while kicking a stray stool out of his path with a theatrical flourish.
"Great reflexes! That's my girl! Quick as a stream!" Arthur roared, dropping the potatoes onto the floorboards with a heavy thud that shook the pans hanging from the rafters.
From the pantry, Sela's mother, Maeve, emerged like a whirlwind. She was a petite woman, but she possessed the lung capacity of a mountain guard. She was carrying three massive jars of pickled cabbage, humming a frantic, upbeat tune that didn't match the rhythm of anything else in the house.
"Arthur, don't throw the wooden bowls, you'll split the grain!" Maeve scolded, though she immediately leaned over and planted a loud, smacking kiss on her husband's cheek before turning her high-energy gaze to her daughter. "Sela, sweetie, pop those radishes into the pot! And smile, darling! It's a beautiful morning! The sun is out, the birds are singing, and we have enough cabbage to last until winter!"
Sela looked at her parents. Her expression was completely blank, looking at her, you would think she was made of winter frost. She quietly placed the radishes by the stove, her movements methodical and slow, a deliberate protest against the chaotic whirlwind of her parents.
"I am smiling," Sela said flatly, her voice a calm, even line.
"Sweetheart, if you smile any harder, your jaw is going to freeze shut," Arthur joked, walking over and leaning his massive elbows on the kitchen counter. The laughter faded from his bright eyes, replaced by a soft, lingering look of concern. He reached out, his thick, calloused finger gently tapping her nose. "Come on, Sela. When are you going to drop that tough persona and just be the full-of-energy child you always were? I miss the little girl who used to chase the river-frogs and scream at the top of her lungs."
Sela subtly leaned her head back, slipping away from his touch. She picked up the paring knife, her knuckles whitening slightly around the wooden handle. Deep down, beneath the frozen mask, a sharp prickle of insecurity flared. The village was changing. The expectations for children with gifts were getting heavier every day. Rael was being broken by his nobility; Ren was running himself ragged trying to prove his wind bursts. She had seen how the world treated vulnerability—how it looked at weakness and took advantage. She had crafted this cold, untouchable shell to protect herself, to make sure no one could ever see the doubts swirling inside her head.
"I'm grown up, Dad," Sela said, her voice dropping into that familiar, deadpan register. "I don't have to chase frogs anymore."
Maeve stopped her humming, wiping her hands on a dishtowel as she walked over, her energetic bounce softening into something deeply maternal. She reached out, her hands gently cupping Sela's cheeks. Sela didn't pull away from her mother, but she kept her eyes fixed firmly on the cutting board.
"Sela, you're thirteen," Maeve said softly, her voice full of a warm, unshakeable truth. "You're a baby. You don't have to act cold and distant all the time, because that's just not you. We know you, sweetie. You have a heart that burns so bright. You don't need to shield yourself from us. You don't need to carry the world on your shoulders."
Sela stood perfectly still under her mother's warm palms. Her chest tightened. She wanted to believe them. She wanted to drop the armor, to laugh loudly like Ren or shout like her father. But the fear of being exposed, of being seen as anything less than unbreakable, was a heavy lock on her throat. If she let the mask slip here, would she be strong enough to put it back on when she stepped outside?
"I'm fine," Sela said, her tone remaining completely unmovable. She gently reached up, untying her mother's hands from her face and stepping back. "The bread is cut. I'm going down to the riverbank."
Arthur and Maeve exchanged a long, troubled look. They knew their daughter was as stubborn as the river stones her house was built on. No matter how much love they poured into the kitchen, the wall Sela had built around herself remained entirely intact.
"Alright, sweetie," Maeve said, forcing her bright, energetic smile back onto her face to break the tension. "Take some of that fresh bread with you! Give some to Lif and the boys! Make sure Ren doesn't eat the whole loaf in one bite!"
"I will," Sela said.
She wrapped the loaf in a clean cloth, tucked it under her arm, and walked out the heavy wooden door. The moment she stepped into the crisp morning air of Velchant, the loud, warm chaos of her home faded into the distance. She adjusted her grip on the bread, her face settling into that hard, unreadable mask as she set her boots onto the dirt path.
She hadn't listened to a word they said. She wasn't going to change. The armor was her shield, and until she felt safe enough to face the world without it, the ice would remain.
But as she walked toward the southern ridge, her thoughts automatically drifted to the one boy who never asked her to melt. Lif didn't look at her armor as a puzzle to be solved, nor did he beg her to be a child again. He just sat in the quiet space beside her, letting her be exactly who she chose to be.
Sela picked up her pace, her boots kicking up tiny clouds of dust as she headed toward the riverbank.