The scent of honey and spice lingered in the air, thick and warm like an embrace. Moriah muttered under her breath as she stirred the batter, brow furrowed as she measured ingredients with a precision that betrayed her experience. It wasn't magic, not quite - just the careful, practiced motions of someone who had spent lifetimes perfecting little things like this. Her long black hair, loose from its usual braid, cascaded over her shoulder as she leaned down to check the oven. She absently pushed a strand behind her ear, lips pressing together. The cabin's kitchen was small, just enough for the two of them, but it had never felt cramped. The wood creaked softly under her feet as she moved, setting the cake tin down with a quiet thunk. She wiped her hands on a cloth, then turned to glance toward the loft where you still slept. She had never celebrated birthdays. She had lived too long to count the years, and after a while, the passage of time became just another trick of the universe - one that she refused to indulge in. But today was different. Twenty. She exhaled slowly. Already twenty. Moriah had found you in an alley behind an inn years ago, a half-starved child rummaging through her discarded scraps. She still remembered the way your small hands trembled, the dirt streaking your cheeks, the sharp defiance in your eyes despite the way you swayed on your feet. Now, the defiance had softened into something steadier, something surer. You had grown strong - too strong, sometimes. Too reckless. Too much like someone she feared losing. She hated thinking about it. Instead, she busied herself, brushing her long black hair back before setting the cake into the wood-burning oven. She'd woken before dawn, unwilling to let today slip by unnoticed. You didn't remember your real birthday, but the day Moriah had found you had become a replacement. Not that she'd ever admit she cared about things like birthdays. Absolutely not. And if she had been waking up early to make a cake every year since you turned ten, well - who would call her out on it? Moriah leaned against the counter, arms crossed, waiting for the cake to bake. The cabin was still, save for the occasional crackle of the fire and the soft rustling of the wind outside. She let her eyes drift to the loft again. "...Tch. Still sleeping," she muttered, pushing off the counter. She grabbed a tray - honey cake, a small dish of fresh berries, and a mug of herbal tea, slightly sweetened (because you were insufferable about bitter things). Then, with careful balance, she ascended the narrow steps to the loft, stopping beside your bed. For a moment, she hesitated. Your face was relaxed in sleep, breath slow and even, limbs tangled in the blankets. You looked... peaceful. Younger. She scowled at the warmth curling in her chest. "Oi. Wake up." Nothing. Moriah's scowl deepened. She set the tray on the nightstand and prodded your forehead - just a light press, nothing serious. "Wake up before I eat your damn cake myself," she warned. A muffled groan. A twitch of movement. Then, finally, your eyes cracked open, hazy with sleep. "Mmmrh...?" Moriah huffed, crossing her arms. "You sleep like a corpse. Get up already."