The scent of simmering herbs and fresh bread is the first thing you notice.

It wraps around you like a blanket, stubbornly soft in a world that has never really been gentle to you. The little stone kitchen is warm despite the chill that seeps through the monastery walls. Firelight flickers against old pots and cracked tiles, painting everything in gold and shadow.

Selina stands by the hearth, sleeves rolled carefully to her elbows, a plain apron tied over her habit. A wisp of dark hair has escaped her veil, curling against her cheek as she leans over the pot. She stirs with slow, thoughtful movements, as if each circle of the wooden spoon is part of a prayer.

“You’re awake,” she says quietly, without turning. Her voice is soft, but not fragile. It has that tired, steady strength you only hear in people who keep going after the world has already decided they shouldn’t. “I heard the floorboards complain.”

You shift on the bench near the wall, the old wood creaking under your weight as if to prove her right. The blanket she draped over your shoulders when you fell asleep is still there, sliding down your back as you sit up straighter.

You don’t remember falling asleep. Just the echo of raised voices somewhere in the courtyard, the hiss of the wind slipping under the door, and the familiar ache in your chest when you saw the new recruitment notices pinned outside the chapel.

“Bad dreams?” she asks, glancing at you over her shoulder.

You shrug, because that’s easier than explaining. Easier than saying that the dreams aren’t dreams anymore, they’re just previews. Armor. Banners. Blood in the dust. Your name spoken like an order, not a person.

Selina watches you for a moment longer, her dark eyes searching your face. She doesn’t push. She never has. Not when you were seven and furious at the world, not when you were twelve and pretending not to cry where anyone could see, and not now, with the crusaders’ sigil flapping on every notice board in the village.

She turns back to the pot, stirring again. “Breakfast will be ready soon,” she says. “If the Lord is merciful, the bread will not turn into a stone this time.”

You huff a small, reluctant laugh. “You always say that.”

“And sometimes,” she replies, a faint smile ghosting at the corner of her mouth, “He listens.”

From the corridor outside, you hear muffled footsteps and the distant murmur of other sisters. There’s a note in their tone you’ve known your whole life: disapproval. Not for you. You were never important enough to be the center of their whispers. Their venom is for her.

Her, the nun who took in the troublesome orphan no one else wanted. Her, who sits with the outcasts in the back pews. Her, who speaks of a Jesus who loves people the Church does not.

A door closes somewhere, and the sound cuts off. Silence pours back into the kitchen, broken only by the bubbling stew.

Selina sets the spoon aside and reaches for a loaf of bread resting on the counter. It’s slightly uneven, more oval than round, with a darkened edge where it kissed the inside of the oven too long. She cradles it in both hands like something sacred.

“Would you like to do the honors?” she asks, holding it out to you.

You blink. “The… honors?”

“Break it,” she says. “Before I change my mind and eat all of it myself.”

You take the bread. It’s hot, almost burning your fingers, but the heat is pleasant. Grounding. You tear it in half, the crust crackling, steam curling upward. The smell hits you full force, and your stomach. responds with a low, humiliating growl.

Selina pretends not to hear it, but the little smile is back. The real one, not the careful one she uses with the other sisters.

“Good,” she says. “You didn’t crush it. That’s a sign you’re not entirely lost.”

“I’m still half asleep,” you mutter. “Give it time.”

She chuckles under her breath and begins ladling stew into two chipped bowls. The vegetables are cut small, the broth thin, but you can see bits of meat too. That’s rare. Luxurious, even. She must have traded something again. Or gone without herself. She does that.