Chapter 8 #2
At that precise moment, the front door swung open, sending a sharp gust of wind curling into the warmth of the bakery. The scent of damp earth, pine, and winter rain slipped through the threshold, mingling with the golden glow of hearth and spice.
Conversation stilled. Heads turned.
Cassia, half-expecting another customer in need of shelter from the rain, glanced toward the door—only to freeze. A trio of figures stood framed against the storm-lit sky, too striking to belong among the ordinary warmth of her bakery.
The first could have stepped from the pages of an old elf legend—all golden light and elegant composure. Long, silken hair framed sharp cheekbones and eyes of liquid silver-blue. He surveyed the bakery slowly, with the appreciation of someone visiting a place he’d long wanted to see.
Beside him stood a man who was anything but ethereal—massive, broad shouldered, forced to duck through the doorway.
Dark brown waves were pushed back from a chiseled face, the shadow of a beard sharpening his features.
Unlike Ark, he didn’t bother to hide what he was.
Curved obsidian horns gleamed under the lantern light, proud and unrestrained.
Cassia barely had time to process them before the air shifted.
Because then, he stepped inside—Varil Arkenoth.
He crossed the threshold like a shadow slipping through an open door—silent, unhurried—yet the moment he did, the room belonged to him.
Raindrops clung to the dark wool of his coat.
His presence was nothing like the elf’s easy charm or the other demon’s sheer size.
Ark was quieter than both of them combined, but heavier in a different way.
When their eyes met, Cassia’s breath stilled.
Everything else dimmed into the background. Because there, standing in her doorway, Arkenoth was watching her, his sharp gaze unreadable.
And suddenly, Mrs. Tilly’s words felt less like a fancy and more like something far more inevitable.
Beside her, the elderly woman hummed knowingly, sipping her tea. “Well. That was fast.”
Arkenoth’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Good day.”
Cassia shot to her feet, nearly knocking her cup over. She caught it at the last second, fingers gripping the porcelain.
“H-Hello,” she stammered, blinking at him. “What a . . . pleasant surprise. What brings you to Little Mineola?”
Arkenoth met her gaze evenly. “We were hoping to enjoy some lunch—if you are still serving.”
Lunch? Here?
She wasn’t sure why that discombobulated her. People came to The Witching Flour for lunch all the time, didn’t they?
But Arkenoth wasn’t . . . people.
She cleared her throat. “You—yes. Yes, of course.” She gestured toward the room, a little too broadly, struggling to school her expression into anything that wasn’t stunned disbelief. “Take any seat you like.”
He gave a small nod but didn’t move. Then he turned slightly and gestured toward his companions. “May I present my friends? Meridan Caius and Elios Rhodes.” He nodded at them. “This is Miss Aura Cassia.”
The first, the elf, carried himself like a man accustomed to courtly decorum, his every gesture poised. He inclined his head in greeting. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Aura.”
Meridan? Cassia frowned slightly. She hadn’t heard of an elf family by that name, and she was certain—judging by his physique, aura, and the effortless way he carried himself—that he was an elf. Yet, if he belonged to one of the well-known noble houses, she would’ve remembered.
Then, there was the other one.
Cassia turned toward the massive demon, and recognition flickered in the back of her mind. She had read about him before—not recently, but the gossip papers loved to dredge up old scandals whenever they found a slow news day.
Elios Rhodes.
Who in Angelene hadn’t heard that name?
His family was one of the oldest and most revered Aureli houses—an ancient line of sun-elves whose pride ran as deep as their reverence for lineage.
Scholars, ceremonial architects, and aristocrats, the Elios family had shaped elven ritual for generations, and expected their children to carry that legacy forward without deviation.
But about three decades ago, Lady Elios had done the unthinkable: she bore a child from an indiscretion with a demon. Not just any demon. A Furia—a Rage Demon.
And yet, Sir Elios had claimed the boy as his own—whether out of pride, duty, or something else—sending shockwaves through Meredith’s nobility.
Cassia had always thought that Elios Rhodes was exceedingly fortunate. A half-demon, half-elf man whose very existence should’ve been a scandal buried and forgotten, or so the Echelons would have preferred. And yet here he was: towering, self-assured, utterly unapologetic for what he was.
He grinned, broad and easy. “You made those honey cakes?”
His voice was a deep, warm rumble that grounded the moment and made it feel a little less surreal.
Cassia hesitated. “I did.”
The cakes. Arkenoth had implied he shared them with others. Were these the people he spoke of?
Rhodes let out a low huff, shaking his head.
“I took one bite and knew I must meet the Kitchen Witch behind them.” Then, without hesitation, he took her hand—engulfed it, really.
His grip was firm, warm, his calloused fingers rough against her knuckles.
“Your hands should be a national treasure, Miss Aura.”
Cassia’s brow arched. “They were that good?”
“Better,” he said solemnly.
Everything she’d read about Rage Demons—the violence, the battle-frenzy, the legends of mindless destruction—seemed absurd standing in front of this man, who was cradling her hand like it was made of glass.
A small laugh escaped before she could stop it. “Well. I’m glad you enjoyed them.”
She turned to Ark—just in time to catch the way his gaze flicked to her mouth at the sound of her laughter. Just for a moment.
Cassia cleared her throat. “Please have a seat anywhere you like. I’ll get you some tea and tell you about today’s lunch specials.”
She tried not to grimace when they gravitated toward the table at the back, the one closest to Opalina and Lilibeth, who were both staring unabashedly—not that they were alone in their curiosity.
The rest of the bakery had gone silent, everyone practically leaning in to catch every word.
The Witching Flour received plenty of patrons, but never anyone quite like these three.
The table and chairs, perfectly suited for the average customer, looked almost comically small beneath them—especially Rhodes. The seat let out a protesting creak as he settled into it, the sturdy wood visibly straining under his size.
She served them tea and its fixings, slipping a clam-shaped ginger cookie beside each cup. For Ark, she poured a cup of homemade apple cider, flavoured with nutmeg and black pepper.
“For today’s lunch,” she told them, “we have roasted parsnip and chestnut soup, served with thick slices of sourdough and rosemary butter. If you want something heartier, there’s lamb and winter vegetable stew, slow-cooked overnight until the meat falls off the bones.”
She didn’t miss the way Rhodes perked up slightly at that.
“There is also mushroom and caramelized onion quiche with shortcrust pastry. For something lighter, we have pumpkin and ricotta hand pies, as well as rosemary and thyme scones that pair well with whipped goat cheese.”
She seemed to have garnered their avid attention with her lineup of dishes. She loved, loved this moment—when diners sat straight in their chairs, their eyes twinkling with interest, ready to pounce the moment she took out her pen and notepad to take their orders.
Her lips curled. “And if you’ve got room for dessert, there’s a dark chocolate torte, or a poached pear pie with almond frangipane, served warm.”
Cassia met Ark’s gaze. “So? What will it be?”
Before he could answer, Rhodes intercepted. “I’m not someone with good decision making skills, so let’s go with all.”
She blinked. “All of them?”
He nodded solemnly. “It’s the only reasonable choice.”
Caius rubbed his temple. “For once—especially when we’re trying to make a good first impression—could you pretend to have restraint?”
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She had a feeling this was a familiar argument.
“You say that now,” Rhodes countered, “but you’ll thank me when you don’t have to regret not ordering something.”
Ark added dryly, “Or when we don’t have to watch him steal food off our plates.”
She eyed their table, already knowing there wouldn’t be enough space. “I’ll bring you another table.”
Ark rose. “Let me help you.”
She didn’t miss the way Caius winked at Rhodes, his expression far too knowing. “Our Ark is so gallant—I never knew.”
Rhodes answered just as glibly, “Well, she is his Chosen.”
Cassia nearly tripped over her own feet. Silence slammed into the bakery. A fork clattered to a plate. Opalina and Lilibeth, who had been watching closely from their table, gaped.
Then, as if rehearsed, they both stood at the same time. The sharp scrape of chair legs against the wooden floor punctuated the hush.
“You’re his what?” Opalina gasped.
“And why,” Lilibeth demanded, hands planted on her hips, “did his friends find out before we did?”
Cassia shot Ark a panicked look. This was not how she’d wanted her friends to find out!
His jaw tightened—the only crack in his composure—but when his gaze met hers, it softened.
Rhodes at least had the decency to look chastised, eyes on his lap.
Caius exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge of it as if he could physically undo the last thirty seconds.
For a long, terrible moment, nobody spoke.
Even Mrs. Tilly had stopped mid-sip, eyes bright with intrigue over the rim of her teacup.
Cassia’s pulse roared in her ears. Arkenoth, however, simply looked at her.
Not at her friends, not at the audience they’d unwittingly gained, but her.
And something in his expression—regret? apology? —made her stomach twist.