Once the butchering was complete, the floating knives of stone clattered harmlessly to the ground, leaving the air heavy with the iron tang of blood. Isolde wiped nothing—because she hadn’t touched a thing—and stretched languidly like she’d just finished a stroll, not dismantled a three-hundred-pound boar.
Oliver stared at the neatly separated piles of at, organs, and bones. "...You could’ve at least left sothing to do."
"I did." With a flick of her finger, a thick strip of boar at floated toward him. "You’re going to cook it."
He caught it clumsily, scowling. "And what about you showing off your cooking skills?"
"Oh, I will," she replied smoothly, lounging against a log with her arms crossed. A smirk tugged at her lips. "But first, I want to watch you make a fool of yourself. If you don’t try, you’ll never learn. Surviving ans knowing how to cook your own food. And besides—" her crimson eyes glead in the firelight, "—watching you struggle is far more entertaining."
"Wonderful," Oliver muttered. He jamd a branch through the at to make a crude skewer, then balanced it awkwardly over the flas. Within monts, smoke rose in uneven bursts. He tried to turn it, but the stick slipped and the at half-fell into the fire. "Shit!" He scrambled to pull it out, shaking the charred end frantically.
From behind him ca a lilting chuckle. "Do you plan to eat coal tonight, Oli?"
"Shut it. Do it yourself," he snapped, tossing the stick aside and sitting down with folded arms.
"Hmph. Fine. Watch and learn."
Isolde rolled up her sleeves—completely unnecessary, but dramatic nonetheless—and crouched gracefully near the fire. She didn’t use magic this ti. Instead, she selected a branch with the right thickness, whittled the end to a sharp point using one of her floating stones, and skewered a clean cut of at. She held it over the flas at just the right distance, rotating it steadily with a patience Oliver could never dream of.
The firelight flickered across her pale skin as she leaned close, every turn precise. The sizzling at released a rich aroma that spread through the clearing, mouthwatering and wild. Isolde sprinkled in so crushed herbs she had foraged earlier, and the scent deepened, sharp and savory.
Oliver found himself leaning forward unconsciously, his stomach growling. "You’ve done this before."
Isolde smirked without looking up. "Did you think Umbrals never had to fend for themselves? We weren’t always lords of darkness, you know."
By the ti she was done, the boar strips were golden brown, crisped on the edges, with juices still glistening in the middle. She passed him a skewer, her crimson eyes amused. "Go on. Try it."
Oliver bit down—and froze.
The at practically lted in his mouth, tender and soft, with the wild herbs adding just enough bite to cut through the richness. No heavy spices, no sauces, but sohow it tasted better than any feast he’d ever had in the capital. After weeks of charred rat at in the dungeon, the contrast was almost painful.
He let out an involuntary groan. "Holy... gods."
Isolde chuckled, leaning back smugly. "Good, isn’t it?"
"Good? This is... this is heaven. I didn’t even know at could taste like this without spices." He looked at the skewer, wide-eyed. "What are you?"
"An Umbral," she said simply, as if that explained everything.
Oliver laughed around his mouthful. "No, really. You’re wasted as a rune freak. You could’ve opened a tavern. You’d make a killing."
She tilted her head, smiling faintly. "Would you work for then? My loyal little dishwasher?"
"Hell no," he shot back instantly, chewing furiously.
They ate heartily, one skewer after another. Then another. Then entire slabs of at roasted over the fire. Bite by bite, the massive boar disappeared between them, their laughter and bickering mixing with the crackle of flas.
By the ti they were done, the bones were picked clean, the clearing slled like a butcher’s shop, and the campfire was surrounded by skewers piled haphazardly. The beast that could’ve fed ten n was gone.
Oliver sprawled onto the ground, his stomach bulging under his shirt. "I... can’t move."
Beside him, Isolde lay back as well, arms stretched above her head, eyes half-lidded as she gazed at the starry night sky. "Pathetic. But... satisfying."
The two of them lay there in silence for a while, full to bursting, their breathing slow. The forest buzzed quietly around them, but in that little clearing, it felt oddly peaceful.
"...I haven’t felt this full since I got here," Oliver admitted, hands on his belly. "Almost feels like a dream."
Isolde turned her head slightly toward him, her smirk softened into sothing closer to a smile. "Then don’t wake up yet."
And for once, Oliver didn’t have the energy to argue. He just closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the fire and food sink into him.
~~~
Their peace didn’t last long.
After a while of turning and shifting, Oliver let out a groan. "Ugh... damn ground feels like I’m lying on jagged rocks." He sat up, rubbing his back. "We can’t go like this."
Isolde rolled onto her side with an equally irritated sigh. "Agreed."
They both glanced at each other in the firelight, the silence stretching until Oliver finally snapped. "What are you staring at? Do your work. You were the one proclaiming you’d make the shelter."
"I know, I know." She pressed a hand dramatically to her stomach. "Did I say I wouldn’t? I’m just too full to even stand up right now. So... just wait a mont."
Still sitting on the ground, she lifted her hands and began weaving her fingers gracefully, like a conductor leading an orchestra.
The earlier-cut logs around the clearing shuddered, then rose into the air. With another flick of her wrist, they rotated and shifted, slamming into place with heavy thuds. A lattice of beams slotted together seamlessly, forming the skeleton of a hut. Planks hovered, aligning with precise gaps, sealing into walls as though they were magnetized.
A gust of wind magic blew across the clearing, sweeping leaves and twigs to the side, clearing the floor. Thin roots were tugged from the ground by a muttered [Bind Root], braiding themselves into a crude but sturdy frawork for the roof. Finally, a sheet of bark, stitched together by glowing rune-lines, layered itself neatly over the top like shingles.
Within minutes, a makeshift hut stood there—compact but solid, with walls tall enough for two to stand upright and a low doorway that still slled faintly of fresh sap.
Oliver blinked at the finished product, muttering under his breath. "Magic sure is convenient..."
"Isn’t it?" Isolde replied smugly, dusting off her hands though she’d hardly moved. "I can teach you if you want."
Oliver narrowed his eyes, skeptical. "...Without tearing my flesh open? Without carving runes into my heart, I an?"
"Of course," she said easily. "Enchantnt, inscriptions, runesmithing—it’s all second nature to . With your class, Linguist, it’d be criminal not to learn. You’re made for it."
"You’re not joking, are you?"
"Why would I?" She tilted her head. "But first—go make the bedding. Like the little bitch you are now." Her laughter rang through the clearing.
Oliver groaned, throwing his hands up. "And here I was starting to have a good opinion of you."
"What does the opinion of a weakling matter?" she shot back with a smirk.
Disheartened, he muttered curses under his breath but did as she said. He dragged the cleaned boar hide inside the hut, layered it with bundles of leaves, and spread it into sothing resembling a bed. Not the softest
After fumbling around inside the newly built hut, Oliver finally dropped onto the bedding with a groan. The boar skin still slled faintly of smoke and iron, but at least it wasn’t stone digging into his back. He patted the stuffed leaves beneath it, testing the bounce. "Well... better than nothing."
It wasn’t the best bed he’d ever slept on, but compared to the stone dungeon floor, it was luxury.
Isolde strolled in after him, brushing off her robes with exaggerated grace, as if she hadn’t been sitting like a lazy glutton minutes before. She looked at the bedding, then at Oliver, then deliberately sat on the other side, stretching out without hesitation.
"Oi, don’t just plop down like you own the place," Oliver complained, scooting to make space.
"Who built the place?" she countered smoothly, lying down on her side and propping her cheek with one hand. "I think that makes the rightful owner. You’re just the tenant."
Oliver rolled his eyes. "Then as your tenant, I demand you at least fix the draft. Wind’s cutting right through the walls."
"Tch, picky." She lazily flicked her fingers, and the gaps between the logs shimred as a faint layer of darkness sealed them tight. "There. Cozy enough for the spoiled child?"
"...Actually, yeah," Oliver muttered. The air inside ward imdiately, holding the fire’s heat without choking them in smoke. He couldn’t deny—it felt almost like a real cabin now.
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