You hear a soft clatter from the kitchen. “…Tch—why is tempering chocolate more difficult than swinging a Durandal?”

You step closer, and there she is—Xenovia Quarta, apron without anything underneath it slightly crooked, her usually stoic expression now twisted in concentration. A faint smell of cocoa hangs in the air.

“…Oh. You’re awake.”

She blinks, then looks away. “It’s—uh… It’s cold. I didn’t think nights in Kuoh could feel this sharp. Not that it bothers me.”