The morning was perfect.
I don't say that lightly. Mornings in Southshore are usually damp and grey, the fog rolling off the sea, the streets slick with dew. But this morning was different. The sun came up clear and warm, and the air smelled of salt and baking bread and something green I couldn't name.
I woke early, before the inn was stirring, and walked to the market while the stalls were still setting up. The fishmonger greeted me by name. The baker saved a loaf for the inn, still warm from the oven. A cat wound between my ankles and let me scratch its ears before wandering off.
Everything was ordinary.
That was what made it extraordinary.
Willers came down from the manor around midday. No message, no warning — he just appeared at the inn door, looking slightly out of place in the midday sun, and asked if I could take a break.
"I already ate," I said.
"That's not why I'm here."
"Then why?"
He shrugged. "The day's too nice to spend indoors."
I left my apron on the hook by the kitchen door and followed him outside.
We walked through the village without any particular direction. Past the fountain, past the blacksmith's, past the little stone chapel where the priest was sweeping the steps. Willers pointed out a bird's nest tucked under a eaves, and I pointed out a herb growing in a crack in the wall that shouldn't have been there. Small things. The kind of things you notice when you're not in a hurry.
We ended up at the old stone cottage on the north road.
It was smaller than I remembered. The broken shutter was still broken. Moss had crept up the walls. But someone had planted roses once — I could see the old canes, tangled and wild, reaching toward the sun.
"Needs work," Willers said.
"Everything worth having needs work."
He looked at me. I looked at the cottage.
Neither of us said anything more about it. We didn't need to.
We sat on a low stone wall nearby and shared the bread I'd bought at the market. The sun was warm on my shoulders. The hills were green. A farmer passed with a cart of hay and raised a hand in greeting.
This is what happiness feels like, I thought. This quiet thing. This ordinary moment.
The messenger found us on the road back to Southshore. A young man from the manor, out of breath, his horse lathered. He handed Willers a sealed envelope and waited while he read it.
Willers read it twice.
Then he folded it, tucked it into his coat, and turned to me.
"Kalimdor."
One word. That was all it took.
"When?"
"Tomorrow morning."
I nodded. I kept walking. He fell into step beside me.
Neither of us said much after that. There wasn't anything left to say. The day that had been perfect was still perfect — the sun was still warm, the hills still green, the cottage still waiting on the north road.
But something had shifted.
The ordinary was over.
And we both knew it.