Elodie, wrapped up in the wallowing melancholy of her own despair, didn’t notice the newcomer until he was right beside her. She startled, hand flying up to her cheeks to brush her tears away. Moping was neither dignified nor ladylike. What would her mother say if she saw her in such a state? Elodie’s frustration sprung up anew as she turned to the new soldier with a pretty smile. The dazzling white of her grin sat in stark contrast to the shining tears in her eyes.

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” Elodie said with a wave of her hand, voice dipping and winding like a song, “I thought perhaps the lieutenant was using this as an opportunity for me to build up my strength. I dare say the grease on these pots is as formidable as any enemy we’re likely to face.” It was easy to slip into her role as a courtier. Playful banter was a comfortable set of shoes Elodie was all too happy to walk in.

Realizing her rudeness, Elodie dropped her scouring pad and stood, dipping her head as if this were a ballroom and not a dingy kitchen. “Forgive me, I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance. Elodie Atwood,” She lifted her had and smiled up at him—which took a great tilt of her head to do. He was tall, handsome by any measure, which lit a mischievous sparkle in Elodie’s eye.

“Oh—” Elodie dried her hands hastily on her pants before carefully flicking the bubbles from her face. She giggled, shaking her head. How absurd this all ways. Elodie Atwood: darling at court, promising young debutant, future wife of some high-falutin nobleman, scrubbing pots at the back of a dingy kitchen. She redirected her gaze to Torsten, looking him up and down with pleasant curiosity.

“Well, Mister Mosse,” She said with a playful purr, “As you can see I’m quite out of my depth. I’m afraid you’re to be burdened with a less than-skilled compatriot in this endeavor.”

Years and years of training. That’s how. The military strengthened physical endurance, and created soldiers capable of marching miles through the snow and rain, but it was finishing school that taught you how to smile even when your world was falling apart. How to bat your eyes just so and look like a lady even when covered in muck. Now and always, Elodie would do that training justice.

“Well, put, Mister Mosse, and—” She smiled, teeth glittering even in the low light, “Please, call me Elodie. We are comrades in arms, are we not?” With a huff, the tiny witch lifted the now clean soup pot, nearly teetering over before gaining her balance and shifting it over to join its washed brethren.

“Tor…” Elodie turned the nickname over in her mouth, tongue lingering on the syllable as if it were hard candy. She decided she liked it and carried on, dropping the pot to the ground with an exhausted thud. She turned, smiling triumphantly before she saw the mounds of dishes still left that she had somehow forgotten. Her smile wilted and her shoulders slumped before she remembered herself.

She was a witch of Nevermere, dammit. She wasn’t about to be defeated by a few dishes. Blowing a loose strand of hair out of her face with a little huff, Elodie went back over and took her place by Tor.

“So, Tor,” She purred, scrubbing with a scouring pad, “Why on Terra Nova have you decided to join the great legion of dishwashers?” Elodie meant the military of course but delighted in her own playful jest.

Elodie nodded. Legacy military families weren’t unusual—both in common and noble circles. The same could be said for any number of trades, she supposed. It just so happened the war was Nevermere’s primary business. She giggled at his joke, looking up at him as if gazing up a mountain pine reaching for the sky.

With a chuckle, she returned to her pot.

“I am fortunate enough to be born a Nevermerean,” Elodie answered, “Perhaps I’ll never be a great warrior like others, but I think that service for service’s sake is a noble enough calling.”

A calling. Is that really how she felt about this whole endeavor, or how she wantedto feel? Elodie wasn’t sure.

Elodie had now forgotten all about her task. Even though she was scrubbing the pots, it was starting to feel less and less like a chore. It was good to have someone that wasn’t telling her that she was doing too much or too little, or knew nothing but was also too much of a know-it-all. The interaction was nice. Simple. Sweet.

“Rough and ugly are two things I’ve never done well,” Elodie sighed, “But I suppose I’ll have to learn to bury my pride. At least for a little while.” She sighed, a resigned smile spreading across her face. “Potions have always been my strong suit, which doesn’t do me much good here. I’m more comfortable with the kind of witchcraft that can be done in a library or greenhouse, not on the battlefield. It’s…strange. I’ve always thought myself a natural at magic, but I’m discovering there was just a whole half of witchcraft I’d been neglecting.”

She set down another pot, before picking up another. “I’m sorry—” Elodie said suddenly incensed, “Just listen to me, feeling sorry for myself. Mother would be so…” Disappointed. She couldn’t bring herself to say the word.