Chapter 7: Curiosity, or Stupidity

Chapter 7: Curiosity, or Stupidity

In the corner of the room stood an old, scarred oak table—its surface worn smooth by years of use, legs slightly uneven as if it had been patched and repaired more than once.

On it waited breakfast, simple and hearty: thick slices of dark rye bread, still warm from the oven... if they even had an oven, arranged on a wooden trencher; a wedge of sharp, crumbly cheese wrapped in waxed cloth; a small clay pot of thick oatmeal porridge flecked with dried berries and drizzled with golden honey; boiled eggs, their shells cracked but intact, sitting in a shallow basket; a few links of smoked sausage, sliced and glistening faintly; and two wooden bowls of stew—chunks of root vegetables and tender meat swimming in a rich, herby broth. Steam curled lazily upward. Beside each place setting rested a sturdy wooden spoon and a clay mug filled with something hot and fragrant—herbal tea, maybe, or weak ale warmed by the fire.

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